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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


A  NATIVE    OF   WINBY 


AND    OTHER    TALES 


BY 


SARAH    ORNE   JEWETT 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

?,  Cambribge 


1893 


Copyright,  1893, 
Bv  SARAH  ORNE  JEWETT. 

All  rights  reserved* 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


To   MY    DEAR    YOUNGER   SISTER 

C.  A.  E. 

I  have  had  many  pleasures  that  were  doubled 
because  you  shared  them,  and  so  I  write 
your  name  at  the  beginning  of  this  book. 

S.  O.  J. 
AUGUST  NINTH,  1893. 


MG88G59 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  NATIVE  OF  WINBY 1 

DECORATION  DAY .        30 

JIM'S  LITTLE  WOMAN 65 

THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY  .  .  .  109 
THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT  ....  137 

Miss  ESTHER'S  GUEST 159 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE  ....  177 
BETWEEN  MASS  AND  VESPERS  .  .  .  .219 
A  LITTLE  CAPTIVE  MAID 253 


A  NATIVE   OF  WINBY. 
I. 

ON  the  teacher's  desk,  in  the  little  road 
side  school-house,  there  was  a  bunch  of  May 
flowers,  beside  a  dented  and  bent  brass  bell, 
a  small  Worcester's  Dictionary  without  any 
cover,  and  a  worn  morocco-covered  Bible. 
These  were  placed  in  an  orderly  row,  and  be 
hind  them  was  a  small  wooden  box  which  held 
some  broken  pieces  of  blackboard  crayon. 
The  teacher,  whom  no  timid  new  scholar 
could  look  at  boldly,  wore  her  accustomed 
air  of  authority  and  importance.  She  might 
have  been  nineteen  years  old,  —  not  more, — 
but  for  the  time  being  she  scorned  the  fri 
volities  of  youth. 

The  hot  May  sun  was  shining  in  at  the 
smoky  small-paned  windows ;  sometimes  an 
outside  shutter  swung  to  with  a  creak,  and 
eclipsed  the  glare.  The  narrow  door  stood 
wide  open,  to  the  left  as  you  faced  the  desk, 
and  an  old  spotted  dog  lay  asleep  on  the  step, 


2  A  NATIVE   OF    WINBY. 

and  looked  wise  and  old  enough  to  have  gone 
to  school  with  several  generations  of  children. 
It  was  half  past  three  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon,  and  the  primer  class,  settled  into  the 
'apathy  of  after-recess  fatigue,  presented  a 
straggling  front,  as  they  stood  listlessly  on 
the  floor.  As  for  the  big  boys  and  girls, 
they  also  were  longing  to  be  at  liberty,  but 
the  pretty  teacher,  Miss  Marilla  Hender, 
seemed  quite  as  energetic  as  when  school  was 
begun  in  the  morning. 

The  spring  breeze  blew  in  at  the  open 
door,  and  even  fluttered  the  primer  leaves, 
but  the  back  of  the  room  felt  hot  and  close, 
as  if  it  were  midsummer.  The  children  in 
the  class  read  their  lessons  in  those  high- 
keyed,  droning  voices  which  older  teachers 
learn  to  associate  with  faint  powers  of  per 
ception.  Only  one  or  two  of  them  had  an 
awakened  human  look  in  their  eyes,  such  as 
Matthew  Arnold  delighted  himself  in  finding 
so  often  in  the  school-children  of  France. 
Most  of  these  poor  little  students  were  as 
inadequate,  at  that  weary  moment,  to  the 
pursuit  of  letters  as  if  they  had  been  woolly 
spring  lambs  on  a  sunny  hillside.  The 
teacher  corrected  and  admonished  with  great 
patience,  glancing  now  and  then  toward 


A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY.  3 

points  of  danger  and  insurrection,  whence 
came  a  suspicious  buzz  of  whispering  from 
behind  a  desk-lid  or  a  pair  of  widespread 
large  geographies.  Now  and  then  a  toiling 
child  would  rise  and  come  down  the  aisle, 
with  his  forefinger  firm  upon  a  puzzling  word 
as  if  it  were  an  unclassified  insect.  It  was  a 
lovely  beckoning  day  out-of-doors.  The  chil 
dren  felt  like  captives ;  there  was  something 
that  provoked  rebellion  in  the  droning  voices, 
the  buzzing  of  an  early  wild  bee  against  the 
sunlit  pane,  and  even  in  the  stuffy  familiar 
odor  of  the  place,  —  the  odor  of  apples  and 
crumbs  of  doughnuts  and  gingerbread  in  the 
dinner  pails  on  the  high  entry  nails,  and  of 
all  the  little  gowns  and  trousers  that  had 
brushed  through  junipers  and  young  pines 
on  their  way  to  school. 

The  bee  left  his  prisoning  pane  at  last,  and 
came  over  to  the  Mayflowers,  which  were  in 
full  bloom,  although  the  season  was  very  late, 
and  deep  in  the  woods  there  were  still  some 
graybacked  snowdrifts,  speckled  with  bits  of 
bark  and  moss  from  the  trees  above. 

"  Come,  come,  Ezra ! "  urged  the  young 
teacher,  rapping  her  desk  sharply.  "Stop 
watchin'  that  common  bee  !  You  know  well 
enough  what  those  letters  spell.  You  won't 


4  A  NATIVE  OF  WINBY. 

learn  to  read  at  this  rate  until  you  are  a 
grown  man.  Mind  your  book,  now;  you 
ought  to  remember  who  went  to  this  school 
when  he  was  a  little  boy.  You  've  heard 
folks  tell  about  the  Honorable  Joseph  K. 
Laneway  ?  He  used  to  be  in  primer  just 
as  you  are  now,  and  't  was  n't  long  before 
he  was  out  of  it,  either,  and  was  called  the 
smartest  boy  in  school.  He's  got  to  be  a 
general  and  a  Senator,  and  one  of  the  rich 
est  men  out  West.  You  don't  seem  to  have 
the  least  mite  of  ambition  to-day,  any  of 
you!" 

The  exhortation,  entirely  personal  in  the 
beginning,  had  swiftly  passed  to  a  general 
rebuke.  Ezra  looked  relieved,  and  the  other 
children  brightened  up  as  they  recognized  a 
tale  familiar  to  their  ears.  Anything  was 
better  than  trying  to  study  in  that  dull  last 
hour  of  afternoon  school. 

"Yes,"  continued  Miss  Hender,  pleased 
that  she  had  at  last  roused  something  like 
proper  attention,  "  you  all  ought  to  be  proud 
that  you  are  schoolmates  of  District  Number 
Four,  and  can  remember  that  the  celebrated 
General  Laneway  had  the  same  early  advan 
tages  as  you,  and  think  what  he  has  made  of 
himself  by  perseverance  and  ambition." 


A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY.  5 

The  pupils  were  familiar  enough  with  the 
illustrious  history  of  their  noble  predecessor. 
They  were  sure  to  be  told,  in  lawless  mo 
ments,  that  if  Mr.  Laneway  were  to  come  in 
and  see  them  he  would  be  mortified  to  death ; 
and  the  members  of  the  school  committee  al 
ways  referred  to  him,  and  said  that  he  had 
been  a  poor  boy,  and  was  now  a  self-made 
man,  —  as  if  every  man  were  not  self-made 
as  to  his  character  and  reputation ! 

At  this  point,  young  Johnny  Spencer 
showed  his  next  neighbor,  in  the  back  of  his 
Colburn's  Arithmetic,  an  imaginary  portrait 
of  their  district  hero,  which  caused  them 
both  to  chuckle  derisively.  The  Honorable 
Mr.  Laneway  figured  on  the  flyleaf  as  an 
extremely  cross-eyed  person,  with  strangely 
crooked  legs  and  arms  and  a  terrific  expres 
sion.  He  was  outlined  with  red  and  blue 
pencils  as  to  coat  and  trousers,  and  held  a 
reddened  scalp  in  one  hand  and  a  blue  toma 
hawk  in  the  other ;  being  closely  associated 
in  the  artist's  mind  with  the  early  settlements 
of  the  far  West. 

There  was  a  noise  of  wheels  in  the  road 
near  by,  and,  though  Miss  Hender  had  much 
more  to  say,  everybody  ceased  to  listen  to 
her,  and  turned  toward  the  windows,  leaning 


6  A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY. 

far  forward  over  their  desks  to  see  who  might 
be  passing.  They  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
shiny  carriage;  the  old  dog  bounded  out, 
barking,  but  nothing  passed  the  open  door. 
The  carriage  had  stopped;  some  one  was 
coming  to  the  school ;  somebody  was  going  to 
be  called  out !  It  could  not  be  the  commit 
tee,  whose  pompous  and  uninspiring  spring- 
visit  had  taken  place  only  the  week  before. 

Presently  a  well-dressed  elderly  man,  with 
an  expectant,  masterful  look,  stood  on  the 
doorstep,  glanced  in  with  a  smile,  and 
knocked.  Miss  Marilla  Hender  blushed, 
smoothed  her  pretty  hair  anxiously  with  both 
hands,  and  stepped  down  from  her  little  plat 
form  to  answer  the  summons.  There  was 
hardly  a  shut  mouth  in  the  primer  class. 

"  Would  it  be  convenient  for  you  to  re 
ceive  a  visitor  to  the  school?"  the  stranger 
asked  politely,  with  a  fine  bow  of  deference 
to  Miss  Hender.  He  looked  much  pleased 
and  a  little  excited,  and  the  teacher  said,  — 

"  Certainly ;  step  right  in,  won't  you,  sir  ?  " 
in  quite  another  tone  from  that  in  which  she 
had  just  addressed  the  school. 

The  boys  and  girls  were  sitting  straight 
and  silent  in  their  places,  in  something  like 
a  fit  of  apprehension  and  unpreparedness  at 


A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY.  7 

such  a  great  emergency.  The  guest  repre 
sented  a  type  of  person  previously  unknown 
in  District  Number  Four.  Everything  about 
him  spoke  of  wealth  and  authority.  The  old 
dog  returned  to  the  doorstep,  and  after  a 
careful  look  at  the  invader  approached  him, 
with  a  funny  doggish  grin  and  a  desperate 
wag  of  the  tail,  to  beg  for  recognition. 

The  teacher  gave  her  chair  on  the  platform 
to  the  guest,  and  stood  beside  him  with  very 
red  cheeks,  smoothing  her  hair  again  once  or 
twice,  and  keeping  the  hard-wood  ruler  fast 
in  hand,  like  a  badge  of  office.  "Primer 
class  may  now  retire !  "  she  said  firmly,  al 
though  the  lesson  was  not  more  than  half 
through ;  and  the  class  promptly  escaped  to 
their  seats,  waddling  and  stumbling,  until 
they  all  came  up  behind  their  desks,  face 
foremost,  and  added  themselves  to  the  num 
ber  of  staring  young  countenances.  After 
this  there  was  a  silence,  which  grew  more  and 
more  embarrassing. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  be  pleased  to  hear 
our  first  class  in  geography,  sir?"  asked  the 
fair  Marilla,  recovering  her  presence  of 
mind ;  and  the  guest  kindly  assented. 

The  young  teacher  was  by  no  means  will 
ing  to  give  up  a  certainty  for  an  uncertainty. 


8  A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY. 

Yesterday's  lesson  had  been  well  learned ; 
she  turned  back  to  the  questions  about  the 
State  of  Kansota,  and  at  the  first  sentence 
the  mysterious  visitor's  dignity  melted  into 
an  unconscious  smile.  He  listened  intently 
for  a  minute,  and  then  seemed  to  reoccupy 
himself  with  his  own  thoughts  and  purposes, 
looking  eagerly  about  the  old  school-house, 
and  sometimes  gazing  steadily  at  the  chil 
dren.  The  lesson  went  on  finely,  and  when 
it  was  finished  Miss  Hender  asked  the  girl 
at  the  head  of  the  class  to  name  the  States 
and  Territories,  which  she  instantly  did,  mis 
pronouncing  nearly  all  the  names  of  the  lat 
ter  ;  then  others  stated  boundaries  and  capi 
tals,  and  the  resources  of  the  New  England 
States,  passing  011  finally  to  the  names  of  the 
Presidents.  Miss  Hender  glowed  with  pride ; 
she  had  worked  hard  over  the  geography 
class  in  the  winter  term,  and  it  did  not  fail 
her  on  this  great  occasion.  When  she  turned 
bravely  to  see  if  the  gentleman  would  like 
to  ask  any  questions,  she  found  that  he  was 
apparently  lost  in  a  deep  reverie,  so  she  re 
peated  her  own  question  more  distinctly. 

"  They  have  done  very  well,  —  veiy  well 
indeed,"  he  answered  kindly ;  and  then,  to 
every  one's  surprise,  he  rose,  went  up  the 


A  NATIVE   OF   WIN  BY.  9 

aisle,  pushed  Johnny  Spencer  gently  along 
his  bench,  and  sat  down  beside  him.  The 
space  was  cramped,  and  the  stranger  looked 
huge  and  uncomfortable,  so  that  everybody 
laughed,  except  one  of  the  big  girls,  who 
turned  pale  with  fright,  and  thought  he  must 
be  crazy.  When  this  girl  gave  a  faint 
squeak  Miss  Hender  recovered  herself,  and 
rapped  twice  with  the  ruler  to  restore  order ; 
then  became  entirely  tranquil.  There  had 
been  talk  of  replacing  the  hacked  and  worn 
old  school-desks  with  patent  desks  and  chairs ; 
this  was  probably  an  agent  connected  with 
that  business.  At  once  she  was  resolute  and 
self-reliant,  and  said,  "  No  whispering !  "  in 
a  firm  tone  that  showed  she  did  not  mean  to 
be  trifled  with.  The  geography  class  was 
dismissed,  but  the  elderly  gentleman,  in  his 
handsome  overcoat,  still  sat  there  wedged  in 
at  Johnny  Spencer's  side. 

"  I  presume,  sir,  that  you  are  canvassing 
for  new  desks,"  said  Miss  Hender,  with  dig 
nity.  "  You  will  have  to  see  the  supervisor 
and  the  selectmen."  There  did  not  seem  to 
be  any  need  of  his  lingering,  but  she  had  an 
ardent  desire  to  be  pleasing  to  a  person  of 
such  evident  distinction.  "  We  always  tell 
strangers  — •  I  thought,  sir,  you  might  be 


10  A  NATIVE   OF   WIN  BY. 

gratified  to  know  —  that  this  is  the  school- 
house  where  the  Honorable  Joseph  K.  Lane- 
way  first  attended  school.  All  do  not  know 
that  he  was  born  in  this  town,  and  went  West 
very  young;  it  is  only  about  a  mile  from 
here  where  his  folks  used  to  live." 

At  this  moment  the  visitor's  eyes  fell.  He 
did  not  look  at  pretty  Marilla  any  more,  but 
opened  Johnny  Spencer's  arithmetic,  and, 
seeing  the  imaginary  portrait  of  the  great 
General  Laneway,  laughed  a  little,  —  a  very 
deep-down  comfortable  laugh  it  was,  —  while 
Johnny  himself  turned  cold  with  alarm,  he 
could  not  have  told  why. 

It  was  very  still  in  the  school-room ;  the 
bee  was  buzzing  and  bumping  at  the  pane 
again ;  the  moment  was  one  of  intense  ex 
pectation. 

The  stranger  looked  at  the  children  right 
and  left.  "  The  fact  is  this,  young  people," 
said  he,  in  a  tone  that  was  half  pride  and  half 
apology,  "  I  am  Joseph  K.  Laneway  myself." 

He  tried  to  extricate  himself  from  the 
narrow  quarters  of  the  desk,  but  for  an  em 
barrassing  moment  found  that  he  was  stuck 
fast.  Johnny  Spencer  instinctively  gave  him 
an  assisting  push,  and  once  free  the  great 
soldier,  statesman,  and  millionaire  took  a  few 


A  NATIVE   OF  WINBY.  11 

steps  forward  to  the  open  floor;  then,  after 
hesitating  a  moment,  he  mounted  the  little 
platform  and  stood  in  the  teacher's  place. 
Marilla  Hender  was  as  pale  as  ashes. 

"  I  have  thought  many  times,"  the  great 
guest  began,  "  that  some  day  I  should  come 
back  to  visit  this  place,  which  is  so  closely 
interwoven  with  the  memories  of  my  child 
hood.  In  my  counting-room,  on  the  fields  of 
war,  in  the  halls  of  Congress,  and  most  of  all 
in  my  Western  home,  my  thoughts  have  flown 
back  to  the  hills  and  brooks  of  Winby  and 
to  this  little  old  school-house.  I  could  shut 
my  eyes  and  call  back  the  buzz  of  voices, 
and  fear  my  teacher's  frown,  and  feel  my 
boyish  ambitions  waking  and  stirring  in  my 
breast.  On  that  bench  where  I  just  sat  I  saw 
some  notches  that  I  cut  with  my  first  jack- 
knife  fifty-eight  years  ago  this  very  spring. 
I  remember  the  faces  of  the  boys  and  girls 
who  went  to  school  with  me,  and  I  see  their 
grandchildren  before  me.  I  know  that  one 
is  a  Goodsoe  and  another  a  Winn  by  the  old 
family  look.  One  generation  goes,  and  an 
other  comes. 

"  There  are  many  things  that  I  might  say 
to  you.  I  meant,  even  in  those  early  re 
stricted  days,  to  make  my  name  known,  and 


12  A  NATIVE  OF  WINBY. 

I  dare  say  that  you  too  have  ambition.  Be 
careful  what  you  wish  for  in  this  world,  for 
if  you  wish  hard  enough  you  are  sure  to  get 
it.  I  once  heard  a  very  wise  man  say  this, 
and  the  longer  I  live  the  more  firmly  I  be 
lieve  it  to  be  true.  But  wishing  hard  means 
working  hard  for  what  you  want,  and  the 
world's  prizes  wait  for  the  men  and  women 
who  are  ready  to  take  pains  to  win  them. 
Be  careful  and  set  your  minds  on  the  best 
things.  I  meant  to  be  a  rich  man  when  I 
was  a  boy  here,  and  I  stand  before  you  a 
rich  man,  knowing  the  care  and  anxiety  and 
responsibility  of  wealth.  I  meant  to  go  to 
Congress,  and  I  am  one  of  the  Senators  from 
Kansota.  I  say  this  as  humbly  as  I  say  it 
proudly.  I  used  to  read  of  the  valor  and 
patriotism  of  the  old  Greeks  and  Romans 
with  my  youthful  blood  leaping  along  my 
veins,  and  it  came  to  pass  that  my  own  coun 
try  was  in  danger,  and  that  I  could  help  to 
fight  her  battles.  Perhaps  some  one  of  these 
little  lads  has  before  him  a  more  eventful  life 
than  I  have  lived,  and  is  looking  forward  to 
activity  and  honor  and  the  pride  of  fame.  I 
wish  him  all  the  joy  that  I  have  had,  all  the 
toil  that  I  have  had,  and  all  the  bitter  dis 
appointments  even;  for  adversity  leads  a 


A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY.  13 

man  to  depend  upon  that  which  is  above  him, 
and  the  path  of  glory  is  a  lonely  path,  beset 
by  temptations  and  a  bitter  sense  of  the 
weakness  and  imperfection  of  man.  I  see 
my  life  spread  out  like  a  great  picture,  as  I 
stand  here  in  my  boyhood's  place.  I  regret 
my  failures.  I  thank  God  for  what  in  his 
kind  providence  has  been  honest  and  right. 
I  am  glad  to  come  back,  but  I  feel,  as  I  look 
in  your  young  faces,  that  I  am  an  old  man, 
while  your  lives  are  just  beginning.  When 
you  remember,  in  years  to  come,  that  I  came 
here  to  see  the  old  school-house,  remember 
that  I  said :  Wish  for  the  best  things,  and 
work  hard  to  win  them  ;  try  to  be  good  men 
and  women,  for  the  honor  of  the  school  and 
the  town,  and  the  noble  young  country  that 
gave  you  birth ;  be  kind  at  home  and  gener 
ous  abroad.  Remember  that  I,  an  old  man 
who  had  seen  much  of  life,  begged  you  to  be 
brave  and  good." 

The  Honorable  Mr.  Laneway  had  rarely 
felt  himself  so  moved  in  any  of  his  public 
speeches,  but  he  was  obliged  to  notice  that 
for  once  he  could  not  hold  his  audience.  The 
primer  class  especially  had  begun  to  flag  in 
attention,  but  one  or  two  faces  among  the 
elder  scholars  fairly  shone  with  vital  sym- 


14  A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY. 

patliy  and  a  lovely  prescience  of  their  future. 
Their  eyes  met  his  as  if  they  struck  a  flash 
of  light.  There  was  a  sturdy  boy  who  half 
rose  in  his  place  unconsciously,  the  color 
coming  and  going  in  his  cheeks ;  something 
in  Mr.  Lane  way's  words  lit  the  altar  flame 
in  his  reverent  heart. 

Marilla  Hender  was  pleased  and  a  little 
dazed  ;  she  could  not  have  repeated  what  her 
illustrious  visitor  had  said,  but  she  longed  to 
tell  everybody  the  news  that  he  was  in  town, 
and  had  come  to  school  to  make  an  address. 
She  had  never  seen  a  great  man  before,  and 
really  needed  time  to  reflect  upon  him  and 
to  consider  what  she  ought  to  say.  She  was 
just  quivering  with  the  attempt  to  make  a 
proper  reply  and  thank  Mr.  Laneway  for  the 
honor  of  his  visit  to  the  school,  when  he  asked 
her  which  of  the  boys  could  be  trusted  to 
drive  back  his  hired  horse  to  the  Four  Cor 
ners.  Eight  boys,  large  and  small,  nearly 
every  boy  in  the  school,  rose  at  once  and 
snapped  insistent  fingers  ;  but  Johnny  Spen 
cer  alone  was  desirous  not  to  attract  atten 
tion  to  himself.  The  Colburn's  Intellectual 
Arithmetic  with  the  portrait  had  been  well 
secreted  between  his  tight  jacket  and  his 
shirt.  Miss  Hender  selected  a  trustworthy 


A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY.  15 

freckled  person  in  long  trousers,  who  was 
half  way  to  the  door  in  an  instant,  and  was 
heard  almost  immediately  to  shout  loudly  at 
the  quiet  horse. 

Then  the  Hero  of  District  Number  Four 
made  his  acknowledgments  to  the  teacher. 
"  I  fear  that  I  have  interrupted  you  too  long," 
he  said,  with  pleasing  deference. 

Marilla  replied  that  it  was  of  no  conse 
quence  ;  she  hoped  he  would  call  again.  She 
may  have  spoken  primly,  but  her  pretty  eyes 
said  everything  that  her  lips  forgot.  "  My 
grandmother  will  want  to  see  you,  sir,"  she 
ventured  to  say.  "  I  guess  you  will  remem 
ber  her,  —  Mis'  Hender,  she  that  was  Abby 
Harraii.  She  has  often  told  me  how  you 
used  to  get  your  lessons  out  o'  the  same 
book." 

"Abby  Harran's  granddaughter?"  Mr. 
Laneway  looked  at  her  again  with  fresh  in 
terest.  "  Yes,  I  wish  to  see  her  more  than 
any  one  else.  Tell  her  that  I  am  coming 
to  see  her  before  I  go  away,  and  give  her 
my  love.  Thank  you,  my  dear,"  as  Marilla 
offered  his  missing  hat.  "  Good-by,  boys  and 
girls."  He  stopped  and  looked  at  them  once 
more  from  the  boys' entry,  and  turned  again 
to  look  back  from  the  very  doorstep. 


16  A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY. 

"  Good-by,  sir,  —  good-by,"  piped  two  or 
three  of  the  young  voices ;  but  most  of  the 
children  only  stared,  and  neither  spoke  nor 
moved. 

"  We  will  omit  the  class  in  Fourth  Reader 
this  afternoon.  The  class  in  grammar  may 
recite,"  said  Miss  Render  in  her  most  con 
tained  and  official  manner. 

The  grammar  class  sighed  like  a  single 
pupil,  and  obeyed.  She  was  very  stern  with 
the  grammar  class,  but  every  one  in  school 
had  an  inner  sense  that  it  was  a  great  day  in 
the  history  of  District  Number  Four. 


II. 

The  Honorable  Mr.  Laneway  found  the 
outdoor  air  very  fresh  and  sweet  after  the 
closeness  of  the  school-house.  It  had  just 
that  same  odor  in  his  boyhood,  and  as  he 
escaped  he  had  a  delightful  sense  of  playing 
truant  or  of  having  an  unexpected  holiday. 
It  was  easier  to  think  of  himself  as  a  boy, 
and  to  slip  back  into  boyish  thoughts,  than 
to  bear  the  familiar  burden  of  his  manhood. 
He  climbed  the  tumble-down  stone  wall 
across  the  road,  and  went  along  a  narrow 


A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY.  17 

path  to  the  spring  that  bubbled  up  clear  and 
cold  under  a  great  red  oak.  How  many 
times  he  had  longed  for  a  drink  of  that 
water,  and  now  here  it  was,  and  the  thirst  of 
that  warm  spring  day  was  hard  to  quench ! 
Again  and  again  he  stopped  to  fill  the  birch- 
bark  dipper  which  the  school  -  children  had 
made,  just  as  his  own  comrades  made  theirs 
years  before.  The  oak-tree  was  dying  at  the 
top.  The  pine  woods  beyond  had  been  cut 
and  had  grown  again  since  his  boyhood,  and 
looked  much  as  he  remembered  them.  Be 
yond  the  spring  and  away  from  the  woods 
the  path  led  across  overgrown  pastures  to  an 
other  road,  perhaps  three  quarters  of  a  mile 
away,  and  near  this  road  was  the  small  farm 
which  had  been  his  former  home.  As  he 
walked  slowly  along,  lie  was  met  again  and 
again  by  some  reminder  of  his  youthful  days. 
He  had  always  liked  to  refer  to  his  early  life 
in  New  England  in  his  political  addresses,  and 
had  spoken  more  than  once  of  going  to  find 
the  cows  at  nightfall  in  the  autumn  evenings, 
and  being  glad  to  warm  his  bare  feet  in  the 
places  where  the  sleepy  beasts  had  lain,  be 
fore  he  followed  their  slow  steps  homeward 
through  bush  and  brier.  The  Honorable 
Mr.  Laneway  had  a  touch  of  true  sentiment 


18  A  NATIVE  OF   WIN  BY. 

which  added  much  to  his  really  stirring  and 
effective  campaign  speeches.  He  had  often 
been  called  the  "  king  of  the  platform "  in 
his  adopted  State.  He  had  long  ago  grown 
used  to  saying  "Go"  to  one  man,  and 
"  Come  "  to  another,  like  the  ruler  of  old  ; 
but  all  his  natural  power  of  leadership  and 
habit  of  authority  disappeared  at  once  as  he 
trod  the  pasture  slopes,  calling  back  the  re 
membrance  of  his  childhood.  Here  was  the 
place  where  two  lads,  older  than  himself,  had 
killed  a  terrible  woodchuck  at  bay  in  the 
angle  of  a  great  rock  ;  and  just  beyond  was 
the  sunny  spot  where  he  had  picked  a  bunch 
of  pink  and  white  anemones  under  a  prickly 
barberry  thicket,  to  give  to  Abby  Harran  in 
morning  school.  She  had  put  them  into  her 
desk,  and  let  them  wilt  there,  but  she  was 
pleased  when  she  took  them.  Abby  Harran, 
the  little  teacher's  grandmother,  was  a  year 
older  than  he,  and  had  wakened  the  earliest 
thought  of  love  in  his  youthful  breast. 

It  was  almost  time  to  catch  the  first  sight 
of  his  birthplace.  From  the  knoll  just  ahead 
he  had  often  seen  the  light  of  his  mother's 
lamp,  as  he  came  home  from  school  on  win 
ter  afternoons ;  but  when  he  reached  the 
knoll  the  old  house  was  gone,  and  so  was 


A  NATIVE   OF  WINBY.  19 

the  great  walnut-tree  that  grew  beside  it, 
and  a  pang  of  disappointment  shot  through 
this  devout  pilgrim's  heart.  He  never  had 
doubted  that  the  old  farm  was  somebody's 
home  still,  and  had  counted  upon  the  plea 
sure  of  spending  a  night  there,  and  sleeping 
again  in  that  room  under  the  roof,  where  the 
rain  sounded  loud,  and  the  walnut  branches 
brushed  to  and  fro  when  the  wind  blew,  as  if 
they  were  the  claws  of  tigers.  He  hurried 
across  the  worn-out  fields,  long  ago  turned 
into  sheep  pastures,  where  the  last  year's  tall 
grass  and  golden-rod  stood  gray  and  winter 
killed  ;  tracing  the  old  walls  and  fences,  and 
astonished  to  see  how  small  the  fields  had 
been.  The  prosperous  owner  of  Western 
farming  lands  could  not  help  remembering 
those  widespread  luxuriant  acres,  and  the 
broad  outlooks  of  his  Western  home. 

It  was  difficult  at  first  to  find  exactly 
where  the  house  had  stood ;  even  the  founda 
tions  had  disappeared.  At  last  in  the  long, 
faded  grass  he  discovered  the  doorstep,  and 
near  by  was  a  little  mound  where  the  great 
walnut-tree  stump  had  been.  The  cellar  was 
a  mere  dent  in  the  sloping  ground ;  it  had 
been  filled  in  by  the  growing  grass  and  slow 
processes  of  summer  and  winter  weather. 


20  A  NATIVE   OF  WINBY. 

But  just  at  the  pilgrim's  right  were  some 
thorny  twigs  of  an  old  rosebush.  A  sudden 
brightening  of  memory  brought  to  mind  the 
love  that  his  mother  —  dead  since  his  fif 
teenth  year  —  had  kept  for  this  sweetbrier. 
How  often  she  had  wished  that  she  had 
brought  it  to  her  new  home  !  So  much  had 
changed  in  the  world,  so  many  had  gone  into 
the  world  of  light,  and  here  the  faithful 
blooming  thing  was  yet  alive !  There  was 
one  slender  branch  where  green  buds  were 
starting,  and  getting  ready  to  flower  in  the 
new  year. 

The  afternoon  wore  late,  and  still  the  gray- 
haired  man  lingered.  He  might  have  laughed 
at  some  one  else  who  gave  himself  up  to  sad 
thoughts,  and  found  fault  with  himself,  with 
no  defendant  to  plead  his  cause  at  the  bar  of 
conscience.  It  was  an  altogether  lonely  hour. 
He  had  dreamed  all  his  life,  in  a  sentimental, 
self -satisfied  fashion,  of  this  return  to  Winby. 
It  had  always  appeared  to  be  a  grand  affair, 
but  so  far  he  was  himself  the  only  interested 
spectator  at  his  poor  occasion.  There  was 
even  a  dismal  consciousness  that  he  had  been 
undignified,  perhaps  even  a  little  consequen 
tial  and  silly,  in  the  old  school-house.  The 
picture  of  himself  on  the  war-path,  in  Johnny 


A  NATIVE.  OF   WINBY.  21 

Spencer's  arithmetic,  was  the  only  tribute 
that  this  longed-for  day  had  held,  but  he 
laughed  aloud  delightedly  at  the  remem 
brance  and  really  liked  that  solemn  little  boy 
who  sat  at  his  own  old  desk.  There  was  an 
other  older  lad,  who  sat  at  the  back  of  the 
room,  who  reminded  Mr.  Lane  way  of  himself 
in  his  eager  youth.  There  was  a  spark  of 
light  in  that  fellow's  eyes.  Once  or  twice  in 
the  earlier  afternoon,  as  he  drove  along,  he 
had  asked  people  in  the  road  if  there  were  a 
Laneway  family  in  that  neighborhood,  but 
everybody  had  said  no  in  indifferent  fashion. 
Somehow  he  had  been  expecting  that  every 
one  would  know  him  and  greet  him,  and  give 
him  credit  for  what  he  had  tried  to  do,  but 
old  Winby  had  her  own  affairs  to  look  after, 
and  did  very  well  without  any  of  his  help. 

Mr.  Laneway  acknowledged  to  himself  at 
this  point  that  he  was  weak  and  unmanly. 
There  must  be  some  old  friends  who  would 
remember  him,  and  give  him  as  hearty  a 
welcome  as  the  greeting  he  had  brought  for 
them.  So  he  rose  and  went  his  way  west 
ward  toward  the  sunset.  The  air  was  grow 
ing  damp  and  cold,  and  it  was  time  to  make 
sure  of  shelter.  This  was  hardly  like  the 
visit  he  had  meant  to  pay  to  his  birthplace. 


22  A  NATIVE   OF  WINBY. 

He  wished  with  all  his  heart  that  he  had  never 
come  back.  But  he  walked  briskly  away,  in 
tent  upon  wider  thoughts  as  the  fresh  even 
ing  breeze  quickened  his  steps.  He  did  not 
consider  where  he  was  going,  but  was  for  a 
time  the  busy  man  of  affairs,  stimulated  by 
the  unconscious  influence  of  his  surround 
ings.  The  slender  gray  birches  and  pitch 
pines  of  that  neglected  pasture  had  never  be 
fore  seen  a  hat  and  coat  exactly  in  the  fash 
ion.  They  may  have  been  abashed  by  the 
presence  of  a  United  States  Senator  and 
Western  millionaire,  though  a  piece  of  New 
England  ground  that  had  often  felt  the  tread 
of  his  bare  feet  was  not  likely  to  quake  be 
cause  a  pair  of  smart  shoes  stepped  hastily 
along  the  school-house  path. 


III. 

There  was  an  imperative  knock  at  the 
side  door  of  the  Hender  farmhouse,  just  after 
dark.  The  young  school-mistress  had  come 
home  late,  because  she  had  stopped  all  the 
way  along  to  give  people  the  news  of  her 
afternoon's  experience.  Marilla  was  not  coy 
and  speechless  any  longer,  but  sat  by  the 


A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY.  23 

kitchen  stove  telling  her  eager  grandmother 
everything  she  could  remember  or  could  im 
agine. 

"  Who  's  that  knocking  at  the  door  ?  "  in 
terrupted  Mrs.  Hender.  "  No,  I  '11  go  my 
self  ;  I  'm  nearest." 

The  man  outside  was  cold  and  foot-weary. 
He  was  not  used  to  spending  a  whole  day 
unrecognized,  and,  after  being  first  amused, 
and  even  enjoying  a  sense  of  freedom  at 
escaping  his  just  dues  of  consideration  and 
respect,  he  had  begun  to  feel  as  if  he  were 
old  and  forgotten,  and  was  hardly  sure  of  a 
friend  in  the  world. 

Old  Mrs.  Hender  came  to  the  door,  with 
her  eyes  shining  with  delight,  in  great  haste 
to  dismiss  whoever  had  knocked,  so  that  she 
might  hear  the  rest  of  Marilla's  story.  She 
opened  the  door  wide  to  whoever  might  have 
come  on  some  country  errand,  and  looked  the 
tired  and  faint-hearted  Mr.  Laneway  full  in 
the  face. 

"  Dear  heart,  come  in !  "  she  exclaimed, 
reaching  out  and  taking  him  by  the  shoul 
der,  as  he  stood  humbly  on  a  lower  step. 
"  Come  right  in,  Joe.  Why,  I  should  know 
you  anywhere !  Why,  Joe  Laneway,  you 
same  boy  I " 


24  A  NATIVE  OF   WINBY. 

In  they  went  to  the  warm,  bright,  country 
kitchen.  The  delight  and  kindness  of  an 
old  friend's  welcome  and  her  instant  sym 
pathy  seemed  the  loveliest  thing  in  the  world. 
They  sat  down  in  two  old  straight-backed 
kitchen  chairs.  They  still  held  each  other 
by  the  hand,  and  looked  in  each  other's  face. 
The  plain  old  room  was  aglow  with  heat  and 
cheerfulness ;  the  tea-kettle  was  singing ;  a 
drowsy  cat  sat  on  the  wood -box  with  her 
paws  tucked  in ;  and  the  house  dog  came 
forward  in  a  friendly  way,  wagging  his  tail, 
and  laid  his  head  on  their  clasped  hands. 

"  And  to  think  I  have  n't  seen  you  since 
your  folks  moved  out  West,  the  next  spring 
after  you  were  thirteen  in  the  winter,"  said 
the  good  woman.  "  But  I  s'pose  there  ain't 
been  anybody  that  has  followed  your  career 
closer  than  I  have,  accordin'  to  their  oppor 
tunities.  You've  done  a  great  work  for 
your  country,  Joe.  I  'm  proud  of  you  clean 
through.  Sometimes  folks  has  said, '  There, 
there,  Mis'  Render,  what  be  you  goin'  to  say 
now?'  but  I  've  always  told  'em  to  wait.  I 
knew  you  saw  your  reasons.  You  was  always 
an  honest  boy."  The  tears  started  and  shone 
in  her  kind  eyes.  Her  face  showed  that  she 
had  waged  a  bitter  war  with  poverty  and 


A  NATIVE  OF   WIN  BY.  25 

sorrow,  but  the  look  of  affection  that  it  wore, 
and  the  warm  touch  of  her  hard  hand,  mis 
shapen  and  worn  with  toil,  touched  her  old 
friend  in  his  inmost  heart,  and  for  a  minute 
neither  could  speak. 

"  They  do  say  that  women  folks  have  got 
no  natural  head  for  politics,  but  I  always 
could  seem  to  sense  what  was  goin'  on  in 
Washington,  if  there  was  any  sense  to  it," 
said  grandmother  Render  at  last. 

"  Nobody  could  puzzle  you  at  school,  I  re 
member,"  answered  Mr.  Lane  way,  and  they 
both  laughed  heartily.  "But  surely  this 
granddaughter  does  not  make  your  house 
hold?  You  have  sons?" 

"Two  beside  her  father.  He  died;  but 
they  're  both  away,  up  toward  Canada,  buy 
ing  cattle.  We  are  getting  along  consider 
able  well  these  last  few  years,  since  they  got 
a  mite  o'  capital  together ;  but  the  old  farm 
was  n't  really  able  to  maintain  us,  with  the 
heavy  expenses  that  fell  on  us  unexpected 
year  by  year.  I  've  seen  a  great  sight  of 
trouble,  Joe.  My  boy  John,  Manila's  father, 
and  his  nice  wife,  —  I  lost  'em  both  early, 
when  Mar  ilia  was  but  a  child.  John  was 
the  flower  o'  my  family.  He  would  have 
made  a  name  for  himself.  You  would  have 
taken  to  John." 


26  A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY. 

"  I  was  sorry  to  hear  of  your  loss,"  said 
Mr.  Laneway.  "  He  was  a  brave  man.  I 
know  what  he  did  at  Fredericksburg.  You 
remember  that  I  lost  my  wife  and  my  only 
son?" 

There  was  a  silence  between  the  friends, 
who  had  no  need  for  words  now ;  they  un 
derstood  each  other's  heart  only  too  well. 
Marilla,  who  sat  near  them,  rose  and  went 
out  of  the  room. 

"  Yes,  yes,  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Hender, 
calling  her  back,  "  we  ought  to  be  thinkin' 
about  supper." 

"  I  was  going  to  light  a  little  fire  in  the 
parlor,"  explained  Marilla,  with  a  slight 
tone  of  rebuke  in  her  clear  girlish  voice. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  ain't,  —  not  now,  at  least," 
protested  the  elder  woman  decidedly. 
"  Now,  Joseph,  what  should  you  like  to 
have  for  supper  ?  I  wish  to  my  heart  I  had 
some  fried  turnovers,  like  those  you  used  to 
come  after  when  you  was  a  boy.  I  can  make 
'em  just  about  the  same  as  mother  did.  I  '11 
be  bound  you  've  thought  of  some  old-fash 
ioned  dish  that  you  'd  relish  for  your  supper." 

"  Rye  drop-cakes,  then,  if  they  would  n't 
give  you  too  much  trouble,"  answered  the 
Honorable  Joseph,  with  prompt  seriousness, 


A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY.  27 

"  and  don't  forget  some  cheese."  He  looked 
up  at  his  old  playfellow  as  she  stood  beside 
him,  eager  with  affectionate  hospitality. 

"  You  've  no  idea  what  a  comfort  Marilla  's 
been,"  she  stooped  to  whisper.  "  Always 
took  right  hold  and  helped  me  when  she  was 
a  baby.  She 's  as  good  as  made  up  already 
to  me  for  my  having  no  daughter.  I  want 
you  to  get  acquainted  with  Marilla." 

The  granddaughter  was  still  awed  and 
anxious  about  the  entertainment  of  so  dis 
tinguished  a  guest  when  her  grandmother 
appeared  at  last  in  the  pantry. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  let  you  do  no  such  a 
thing,  darliii',"  said  Abby  Hender,  when 
Marilla  spoke  of  making  something  that  she 
called  "fairy  gems"  for  tea,  after  a  new 
and  essentially  feminine  recipe.  "  You  just 
let  me  get  supper  to-night.  The  Gen'ral  has 
enough  kickshaws  to  eat ;  he  wants  a  good, 
hearty,  old  -  fashioned  supper,  —  the  same 
country  cooking  he  remembers  when  he  was 
a  boy.  He  went  so  far  himself  as  to  speak 
of  rye  drop-cakes,  an'  there  ain't  one  in  a 
hundred,  nowadays,  knows  how  to  make  the 
kind  he  means.  You  go  an'  lay  the  table 
just  as  we  always  have  it,  except  you  can 
get  out  them  old  big  sprigged  cups  o'  my 


28  A  NATIVE   OF  W1NBY. 

mother's.  Don't  put  on  none  o'  the  parlor 
cluset  things." 

Marilla  went  off  crestfallen  and  demur 
ring.     She  had  a  noble  desire  to  show  Mr. 

o 

Laneway  that  they  knew  how  to  have  things 
as  well  as  anybody,  and  was  sure  that  he 
would  consider  it  more  polite  to  be  asked 
into  the  best  room,  and  to  sit  there  alone 
until  tea  was  ready;  but  the  illustrious 
Mr.  Laneway  was  allowed  to  stay  in  the 
kitchen,  in  apparent  happiness,  and  to  watch 
the  proceedings  from  beginning  to  end. 
The  two  old  friends  talked  industriously, 
but  he  saw  his  rye  drop-cakes  go  into  the 
oven  and  come  out,  and  his  tea  made,  and 
his  piece  of  salt  fish  broiled  and  buttered,  a 
broad  piece  of  honeycomb  set  on  to  match 
some  delightful  thick  slices  of  brown-crusted 
loaf  bread,  and  all  the  simple  feast  prepared. 
There  was  a  sufficient  piece  of  Abby  Hen- 
der's  best  cheese ;  it  must  be  confessed  that 
there  were  also  some  baked  beans,  and,  as 
one  thing  after  another  appeared,  the  Hon 
orable  Joseph  K.  Laneway  grew  hungrier 
and  hungrier,  until  he  fairly  looked  pale 
with  anticipation  and  delay,  and  was  bidden 
at  that  very  moment  to  draw  up  his  chair 
and  make  himself  a  supper  if  he  could. 


A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY.  29 

What  cups  of  tea,  what  uncounted  rye  drop- 
cakes,  went  to  the  making  of  that  successful 
supper !  How  gay  the  two  old  friends  be 
came,  and  of  what  old  stories  they  reminded 
each  other,  and  how  late  the  dark  spring 
evening  grew,  before  the  feast  was  over  and 
the  straight-backed  chairs  were  set  against 
the  kitchen  wall ! 

Marilla  listened  for  a  time  with  more  or 
less  interest,  but  at  last  she  took  one  of 
her  school-books,  with  slight  ostentation,  and 
went  over  to  study  by  the  lamp.  Mrs.  Hender 
had  brought  her  knitting-work,  a  blue  woolen 
stocking,  out  of  a  drawer,  and  sat  down  se 
rene  and  unruffled,  prepared  to  keep  awake 
as  late  as  possible.  She  was  a  woman  who 
had  kept  her  youthful  looks  through  the 
difficulties  of  farm  life  as  few  women  can, 
and  this  added  to  her  guest's  sense  of  home- 
likeness  and  pleasure.  There  was  something 
that  he  felt  to  be  sisterly  and  comfortable  in 
her  strong  figure  ;  he  even  noticed  the  little 
plaid  woolen  shawl  that  she  wore  about  her 
shoulders.  Dear,  uncomplaining  heart  of 
Abby  Hender  !  The  appealing  friendliness 
of  the  good  woman  made  no  demands  except 
to  be  allowed  to  help  and  to  serve  everybody 
who  came  in  her  way. 


30  A  NATIVE   OF   WINBY. 

Now  began  in  good  earnest '  the  talk  of 
old  times,  and  what  had  become  of  this  and 
that  old  schoolmate ;  how  one  family  had 
come  to  want  and  another  to  wealth.  The 
changes  and  losses  and  windfalls  of  good 
fortune  in  that  rural  neighborhood  were 
made  tragedy  and  comedy  by  turns  in 
Abby  Render's  dramatic  speech.  She  grew 
younger  and  more  entertaining  hour  by 
hour,  and  beguiled  the  grave  Senator  into 
confidential  talk  of  national  affairs.  He  had 
much  to  say,  to  which  she  listened  with  rare 
sympathy  and  intelligence.  She  astonished 
him  by  her  comprehension  of  difficult  ques 
tions  of  the  day,  and  by  her  simple  good 
sense.  Marilla  grew  hopelessly  sleepy,  and 
departed,  but  neither  of  them  turned  to 
notice  her  as  she  lingered  a  moment  at  the 
door  to  say  good-night.  When  the  imme 
diate  subjects  of  conversation  were  fully  dis 
cussed,  however,  there  was  an  unexpected 
interval  of  silence,  and,  after  making  sure 
that  her  knitting  stitches  counted  exactly 
right,  Abby  Render  cast  a  questioning 
glance  at  the  Senator  to  see  if  he  had  it  in 
mind  to  go  to  bed.  She  was  reluctant  to 
end  her  evening  so  soon,  but  determined  to 
act  the  part  of  considerate  hostess.  The 


A  NATIVE   OF   WIN  BY.  31 

guest  was  as  wide  awake  as  ever:  eleven 
o'clock  was  the  best  part  of  his  evening. 

"  Cider  ?  "  he  suggested,  with  an  expectant 
smile,  and  Abby  Hender  was  on  her  feet  in 
a  moment.  When  she  had  brought  a  pitcher 
from  the  pantry,  he  took  a  candle  from  the 
high  shelf  and  led  the  way. 

"  To  think  of  your  remembering  our  old 
cellar  candlestick  all  these  years  !  "  laughed 
the  pleased  woman,  as  she  followed  him 
down  the  steep  stairway,  and  then  laughed 
still  more  at  his  delight  in  the  familiar  look 
of  the  place. 

"  Unchanged  as  the  pyramids !  "  he  said. 
"  I  suppose  those  pound  sweetings  that  used 
to  be  in  that  farthest  bin  were  eaten  up 
months  ago? " 

It  was  plain  to  see  that  the  household 
stores  were  waning  low,  as  befitted  the  time 
of  year,  but  there  was  still  enough  in  the  old 
cellar.  Care  and  thrift  and  gratitude  made 
the  poor  farmhouse  a  rich  place.  This 
woman  of  real  ability  had  spent  her  strength 
from  youth  to  age,  and  had  lavished  as 
much  industry  and  power  of  organization  in 
her  narrow  sphere  as  would  have  made  her 
famous  in  a  wider  one.  Joseph  Laneway 
could  not  help  sighing  as  he  thought  of  it. 


32  A   NATIVE   OF  W1NBY. 

How  many  things  this  good  friend  had 
missed,  and  yet  how  much  she  had  been 
able  to  win  that  makes  everywhere  the  very 
best  of  life  !  Poor  and  early  widowed,  there 
must  have  been  a  constant  battle  with 
poverty  on  that  stony  Harran  farm,  whose 
owners  had  been  pitied  even  in  his  early 
boyhood,  when  the  best  of  farming  life  was 
none  too  easy.  But  Abby  Hender  had  al 
ways  been  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  town. 

"  Now,  before  we  sit  down  again,  I  want 
you  to  step  into  my  best  room.  Perhaps 
you  won't  have  time  in  the  morning,  and 
I  've  got  something  to  show  you,"  she  said 
persuasively. 

It  was  a  plain,  old-fashioned  best  room, 
with  a  look  of  pleasantness  in  spite  of  the 
spring  chill  and  the  stiffness  of  the  best 
chairs.  They  lingered  before  the  picture  of 
Mrs.  Hender's  soldier  son,  a  poor  work  of  a 
poorer  artist  in  crayons,  but  the  spirit  of  the 
young  face  shone  out  appealingly.  Then  they 
crossed  the  room  and  stood  before  some 
bookshelves,  and  Abby  Hender's  face  bright 
ened  into  a  beaming  smile  of  triumph. 

"You  didn't  expect  we  should  have  all 
those  books,  now,  did  you,  Joe  Laneway?" 
she  asked. 


A  NATIVE   OF  WIN  BY.  33 

He  shook  his  head  soberly,  and  leaned  for 
ward  to  read  the  titles.  There  were  no  very 
new  ones,  as  if  times  had  been  hard  of  late ; 
almost  every  volume  was  either  history, 
or  biography,  or  travel.  Their  owner  had 
reached  out  of  her  own  narrow  boundaries 
into  other  lives  and  into  far  countries.  He 
recognized  with  gratitude  two  or  three  con 
gressional  books  that  he  had  sent  her  when 
he  first  went  to  Washington,  and  there  was 
a  life  of  himself,  written  from  a  partisan 
point  of  view,  and  issued  in  one  of  his  most 
exciting  campaign^ ;  the  sight  of  it  touched 
him  to  the  heart,  and  then  she  opened  it,  and 
showed  him  the  three  or  four  letters  that  he 
had  written  her,  —  one,  in  boyish  handwrit 
ing,  describing  his  adventures  on  his  first 
Western  journey. 

"  There  are  a  hundred  and  six  volumes 
now,"  announced  the  proud  owner  of  such  a 
library.  "  I  lend  'em  all  I  can,  or  most  of 
them  would  look  better.  I  have  had  to  wait 
a  good  while  for  some,  and  some  were  n't 
what  I  expected  'em  to  be,  but  most  of  'em 's 
as  good  books  as  there  is  in  the  world.  I  've 
never  been  so  situated  that  it  seemed  best  for 
me  to  indulge  in  a  daily  paper,  and  I  don't 
know  but  it 's  just  as  well ;  but  stories  were 


34  A  NATIVE   OF  WIN  BY. 

never  any  great  of  a  temptation.  I  know 
pretty  well  what 's  goin'  on  about  me,  and  I 
can  make  that  do.  Real  life's  interestin' 
enough  for  me." 

Mr.  Laneway  was  still  looking  over  the 
books.  His  heart  smote  him  for  not  being 
thoughtful;  he  knew  well  enough  that  the 
overflow  of  his  own  library  would  have  been 
delightful  to  this  self-denying,  eager-minded 
soul.  "  I  've  been  a  very  busy  man  all  my 
life,  Abby,"  he  said  impulsively,  as  if  she 
waited  for  some  apology  for  his  forgetful- 
ness,  "  but  I  '11  see  to  it  now  that  you  have 
what  you  want  to  read.  I  don't  mean  to 
lose  hold  of  your  advice  on  state  matters." 
They  both  laughed,  and  he  added,  "  I  've  al 
ways  thought  of  you,  if  I  have  n't  shown  it." 

"  There 's  more  time  to  read  than  there 
used  to  be  ;  I  've  had  what  was  best  for  me," 
answered  the  woman  gently,  with  a  grateful 
look  on  her  face,  as  she  turned  to  glance  at 
her  old  friend.  "  Marilla  takes  hold  wonder 
fully  and  helps  me  with  the  work.  In  the 
long  winter  evenings  you  can't  think  what 
a  treat  a  new  book  is.  I  would  n't  change 
places  with  the  queen." 

They  had  come  back  to  the  kitchen,  and 
she  stood  before  the  cupboard,  reaching  high 


A  NATIVE   OF  WINBY.  35 

for  two  old  gayly  striped  crockery  mugs. 
There  were  some  doughnuts  and  cheese  at 
hand ;  their  early  supper  seemed  quite  for 
gotten.  The  kitchen  was  warm,  and  they 
had  talked  themselves  thirsty  and  hungry ; 
but  with  what  an  unexpected  tang  the  cider 
freshened  their  throats !  Mrs.  Hender  had 
picked  the  apples  herself  that  went  to  the 
press ;  they  were  all  chosen  from  the  old  russet 
tree  and  the  gnarly,  red-cheeked,  ungrafted 
fruit  that  grew  along  the  lane.  The  flavor 
made  one  think  of  frosty  autumn  mornings 
on  high  hillsides,  of  north  winds  and  sunny 
skies.  "  It  'livens  one  to  the  heart,"  as  Mrs. 
Hender  remarked  proudly,  when  the  Senator 
tried  to  praise  it  as  much  as  it  deserved,  and 
finally  gave  a  cheerful  laugh,  such  as  he  had 
not  laughed  for  many  a  day. 

"  Why,  it  seems  like  drinking  the  month 
of  October,"  he  told  her;  and  at  this  the 
hostess  reached  over,  protesting  that  the 
striped  mug  was  too  narrow  to  hold  what  it 
ought,  and  filled  it  up  again. 

"  Oh,  Joe  Laneway,  to  think  that  I  see  you 
at  last,  after  all  these  years ! "  she  said. 
"  How  rich  I  shall  feel  with  this  evening  to 
live  over !  I  've  always  wanted  to  see  some 
body  that  I  'd  read  about,  and  now  I  've  got 


36  A  NATIVE   OF  WINBY. 

that  to  remember  ;  but  I  've  always  known  I 
should  see  you  again,  and  I  believe  't  was 
the  Lord's  will." 

Early  the  next  morning  they  said  good-by. 
The  early  breakfast  had  to  be  hurried,  and 
Marilla  was  to  drive  Mr.  Laneway  to  the  sta 
tion,  three  miles  away.  It  was  Saturday 
morning,  and  she  was  free  from  school. 

Mr.  Laneway  strolled  down  the  lane  be 
fore  breakfast  was  ready,  and  came  back  with 
a  little  bunch  of  pink  anemones  in  his  hand. 
Marilla  thought  that  he  meant  to  give  them 
to  her,  but  he  laid  them  beside  her  grand 
mother's  plate.  "  You  must  n't  put  those  in 
your  desk,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  and  Abby 
Heiider  blushed  like  a  girl. 

"  I  Ve  got  those  others  now,  dried  and  put 
away  somewhere  in  one  of  my  books,"  she 
said  quietly,  and  Marilla  wondered  what  they 
meant. 

The  two  old  friends  shook  hands  warmly 
at  parting.  "I  wish  you  could  have  stayed 
another  day,  so  I  could  have  had  the  minister 
come  and  see  you,"  urged  Mrs.  Hender  re 
gretfully. 

"You  couldn't  have  done  any  more  for 
me.  I  have  had  the  best  visit  in  the  world," 


A  NATIVE  OF  WIN  BY.  37 

he  answered,  a  little  shaken,  and  holding  her 
hand  a  moment  longer,  while  Marilla  sat, 
young  and  impatient,  in  the  high  wagon. 
"  You  're  a  dear  good  woman,  Abby.  Some 
times  when  things  have  gone  wrong  I  Ve 
been  sorry  that  I  ever  had  to  leave  Winby." 

The  woman's  clear  eyes  looked  straight 
into  his;  then  fell.  "You  wouldn't  have 
done  everything  you  have  for  the  country," 
she  said. 

"  Give  me  a  kiss  ;  we  're  getting  to  be 
old  folks  now,"  said  the  General ;  and  they 
kissed  each  other  gravely. 

A  moment  later  Abby  Render  stood  alone 
in  her  dooryard,  watching  and  waving  her 
hand  again  and  again,  while  the  wagon 
rattled  away  down  the  lane  and  turned  into 
the  highroad. 

Two  hours  after  Marilla  returned  from  the 
station,  and  rushed  into  the  kitchen. 

"Grandma!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  never 
did  see  such  a  crowd  in  Winby  as  there  was 
at  the  depot !  Everybody  in  town  had  got 
word  about  General  Laneway,  and  they  were 
pushing  up  to  shake  hands,  and  cheering 
same  as  at  election,  and  the  cars  waited  much 
as  ten  minutes,  and  all  the  folks  was  lookin' 


38  A  NATIVE   OF  WINBY. 

out  of  the  windows,  and  came  out  on  the 
platforms  when  they  heard  who  it  was.  Folks 
say  that  he  'd  been  to  see  the  selectmen  yes 
terday  before  he  came  to  school,  and  he's 
goin'  to  build  an  elegant  town  hall,  and  have 
the  names  put  up  in  it  of  all  the  Win  by  men 
that  went  to  the  war."  Marilla  sank  into  a 
chair,  flushed  with  excitement.  "  Everybody 
was  asking  me  about  his  being  here  last  night 
and  what  he  said  to  the  school.  I  wished 
that  you  'd  gone  down  to  the  depot  instead 
of  me." 

"I  had  the  best  part  of  anybody,"  said 
Mrs.  Render,  smiling  and  going  011  with  her 
Saturday  morning  work.  "  I  'm  real  glad 
they  showed  him  proper  respect,"  she  added 
a  moment  afterward,  but  her  voice  faltered. 

"  Why,  you  ain't  been  cryin',  grandma  ?  " 
asked  the  girl.  "  I  guess  you  're  tired.  You 
had  a  real  good  time,  now,  didn't  you?" 

"  Yes,  dear  heart !  "  said  Abby  Hender. 
"  'T  ain't  pleasant  to  be  growin'  old,  that 's 
all.  I  could  n't  help  noticin'  his  age  as  he 
rode  away.  I've  always  been  lookin'  for 
ward  to  seein'  him  again,  an'  now  it 's  all 
over." 


DECORATION  DAY. 
I. 

A  WEEK  before  the  thirtieth  of  May,  three 
friends  —  John  Stover  and  Henry  Merrill 
and  Asa  Brown  —  happened  to  meet  on  Sat 
urday  evening  at  Barton's  store  at  the  Plains. 
They  were  ready  to  enjoy  this  idle  hour  after 
a  busy  week.  After  long  easterly  rains,  the 
sun  had  at  last  come  out  bright  and  clear, 
and  all  the  Barlow  farmers  had  been  plant 
ing.  There  was  even  a  good  deal  of  plough 
ing  left  to  be  done,  the  season  was  so  back 
ward. 

The  three  middle-aged  men  were  old 
friends.  They  had  been  school-fellows,  and 
when  they  were  hardly  out  of  their  boyhood 
the  war  came  on,  and  they  enlisted  in  the 
same  company,  on  the  same  day,  and  hap 
pened  to  march  away  elbow  to  elbow.  Then 
came  the  great  experience  of  a  great  war, 
and  the  years  that  followed  their  return  from 
the  South  had  come  to  each  almost  alike. 


40  DECORATION  DAY. 

These  men  might  have  been  members  of  the 
same  rustic  household,  they  knew  each  other's 
history  so  well. 

They  were  sitting  on  a  low  wooden  bench 
at  the  left  of  the  store  door  as  you  went  in. 
People  were  coming  and  going  on  their 
Saturday  night  errands,  —  the  post-office  was 
in  Barton's  store,  —  but  the  friends  talked 
on  eagerly,  without  being  interrupted,  except 
by  an  occasional  nod  of  recognition.  They 
appeared  to  take  no  notice  at  all  of  the 
neighbors  whom  they  saw  oftenest.  It  was 
a  most  beautiful  evening;  the  two  great 
elms  were  almost  half  in  leaf  over  the  black 
smith's  shop  which  stood  across  the  wide 
road.  Farther  along  were  two  small  old- 
fashioned  houses  and  the  old  white  church, 
with  its  pretty  belfry  of  four  arched  sides 
and  a  tiny  dome  at  the  top.  The  large  cock 
erel  on  the  vane  was  pointing  a  little  south 
of  west,  and  there  was  still  light  enough  to 
make  it  shine  bravely  against  the  deep  blue 
eastern  sky.  On  the  western  side  of  the 
road,  near  the  store,  were  the  parsonage  and 
the  storekeeper's  modern  house,  which  had  a 
French  roof  and  some  attempt  at  decoration, 
which  the  long-established  Barlow  people 
called  gingerbread-work,  and  regarded  with 


DECORATION  DAY.  41 

mingled  pride  and  disdain.  These  buildings 
made  the  tiny  village  called  Barlow  Plains. 
They  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  long  narrow 
strip  of  level  ground.  They  were  islanded 
by  green  fields  and  pastures.  There  were 
hills  beyond ;  the  mountains  themselves 
seemed  very  near.  Scattered  about  on  the 
hill  slopes  were  farmhouses,  which  stood  so 
far  apart,  with  their  clusters  of  out-buildings, 
that  each  looked  lonely,  and  the  pine  woods 
above  seemed  to  besiege  them  all.  It  was 
lighter  on  the  uplands  than  it  was  in  the 
valley,  where  the  three  men  sat  on  their 
bench,  with  their  backs  to  the  store  and  the 
western  sky. 

"  Well,  here  we  be  'most  into  June,  an'  I 
'ain't  got  a  bush-bean  above  ground,"  la 
mented  Henry  Merrill. 

"  Your  land  's  always  late,  ain't  it  ?  But 
you  always  catch  up  with  the  rest  on  us," 
Asa  Brown  consoled  him.  "  I  've  often  ob 
served  that  your  land,  though  early  planted, 
was  late  to  sprout.  I  view  it  there  's  a  good 
week's  difference  betwixt  me  an'  Stover  an' 
your  folks,  but  come  first  o'  July  we  all  even 
up."^ 

"  'T  is  just  so,"  said  John  Stover,  taking 
his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  as  if  he  had  a  good 


42  DECORATION  DAY. 

deal  more  to  say,  and  then  replacing  it,  as  if 
he  had  changed  his  mind. 

"  Made  it  extry  hard  having  that  long  wet 
spell.  Can't  none  on  us  take  no  day  off 
this  season,"  said  Asa  Brown ;  but  nobody 
thought  it  worth  his  while  to  respond  to  such 
evident  truth. 

"  Next  Saturday  '11  be  the  thirtieth  o'  May 
—  that 's  Decoration  Day,  ain't  it  ?  —  come 
round  again.  Lord  !  how  the  years  slip  by 
after  you  git  to  be  forty-five  an'  along 
there  !  "  said  Asa  again.  "  I  s'pose  some  o' 
our  folks  '11  go  over  to  Alton  to  see  the  pro 
cession,  same  's  usual.  I  've  got  to  git  one 
o'  them  small  flags  to  stick  on  our  Joel's 
grave,  an'  Mis'  Dexter  always  counts  on 
havin'  some  for  Harrison's  lot.  I  calculate 
to  get  'em  somehow.  I  must  make  time  to 
ride  over,  but  I  don't  know  where  the  time  's 
comin'  from  out  o'  next  week.  I  wish  the 
women  folks  would  tend  to  them  things. 
There  's  the  spot  where  Eb  Munson  an'  John 
Tighe  lays  in  the  poor-farm  lot,  an'  I  did 
mean  certain  to  buy  flags  for  'em  last  year 
an'  year  before,  but  I  went  an'  forgot  it. 
I  'd  like  to  have  folks  that  rode  by  notice 
'em  for  once,  if  they  was  town  paupers.  Eb 
Munson  was  as  darin'  a  man  as  ever  stepped 
out  to  tuck  o'  drum." 


DECORATION  DAY.  43 

"So  he  was,"  said  John  Stover,  taking 
his  pipe  with  decision  and  knocking-  out  the 
ashes.  "  Drink  was  his  ruin ;  but  I  wan't 
one  that  could  be  harsh  with  Eb,  no  matter 
what  he  done.  He  worked  hard  long 's  he 
could,  too ;  but  he  wan't  like  a  sound  man, 
an'  I  think  he  took  somethin'  first  not  so 
much  'cause  he  loved  it,  but  to  kind  of  keep 
his  strength  up  so  's  he  could  work,  an'  then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  rum  clinched  with  him  an' 
threw  him.  Eb  was  talkin'  'long  o'  me  one 
day  when  he  was  about  half  full,  an'  says  he, 
right  out,  '  I  would  n't  have  fell  to  this  state,' 
says  he,  '  if  I  'd  had  me  a  home  an'  a  little 
fam'ly;  but  it  don't  make  no  difference  to 
nobody,  and  it 's  the  best  comfort  I  seem  to 
have,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  do  without  it.  I  'm 
ailin'  all  the  time,'  says  he,  '  an'  if  I  keep 
middlin'  full,  I  make  out  to  hold  my  own 
an'  to  keep  along  o'  my  work.'  I  pitied  Eb. 
I  says  to  him,  '  You  ain't  goin'  to  bring  no 
disgrace  on  us  old  army  boys,  be  you,  Eb  ? ' 
an'  he  says  no,  he  wan't.  I  think  if  he  'd 
lived  to  get  one  o'  them  big  fat  pensions, 
he  'd  had  it  easier.  Eight  dollars  a  month 
paid  his  board,  while  he'd  pick  up  what 
cheap  work  he  could,  an'  then  he  got  so  that 
decent  folks  did  n't  seem  to  want  the  bother 
of  him,  an'  so  he  come  on  the  town." 


44  DECORATION  DAY. 

"There  was  somethin'  else  to  it,"  said 
Henry  Merrill  soberly.  "  Drink  come  nat 
ural  to  him,  't  was  born  in  him,  I  expect,  an' 
there  wan't  nobody  that  could  turn  the  divil 
out  same  's  they  did  in  Scriptur'.  His  father 
an'  his  gran'father  was  drinkin'  men;  but 
they  was  kind-hearted  an'  good  neighbors, 
an'  never  set  out  to  wrong  nobody.  'T  was 
the  custom  to  drink  in  their  day ;  folks  was 
colder  an'  lived  poorer  in  early  times,  an' 
that 's  how  most  of  'em  kept  a-goin'.  But 
what  stove  Eb  all  up  was  his  disapp'intment 
with  Marthy  Peck  —  her  f orsakin*  of  him  an' 
marryin'  old  John  Down  whilst  Eb  was  off 
to  war.  I  've  always  laid  it  up  ag'inst  her." 

"  So  've  I,"  said  Asa  Brown.  "  She  did  n't 
use  the  poor  fellow  right.  I  guess  she  was 
full  as  well  off,  but  it 's  one  thing  to  show 
judgment,  an'  another  thing  to  have  heart." 

There  was  a  long  pause ;  the  subject  was 
too  familiar  to  need  further  comment. 

"  There  ain't  no  public  sperit  here  in  Bar 
low,"  announced  Asa  Brown,  with  decision. 
"  I  don't  s'pose  we  could  ever  get  up  any 
thing  for  Decoration  Day.  I  've  felt  kind  of 
'shamed,  but  it  always  comes  in  a  busy  time  ; 
't  wan't  no  time  to  have  it,  anyway,  right  in 
late  plant  in'." 


DECORATION  DAY.  45 

"  'T  ain't  no  use  to  look  for  public  sperit 
'less  you  've  got  some  yourself,"  observed 
John  Stover  soberly ;  but  something  had 
pleased  him  in  the  discouraged  suggestion. 
"  Perhaps  we  could  mark  the  day  this  year. 
It  comes  on  a  Saturday ;  that  ain't  nigh  so 
bad  as  bein'  in  the  middle  of  the  week." 

Nobody  made  any  answer,  and  presently 
he  went  on,  — 

"  There  was  a  time  along  back  when  folks 
was  too  nigh  the  war-time  to  give  much 
thought  to  the  bigness  of  it.  The  best  fel 
lows  was  them  that  had  stayed  to  home  an' 
worked  their  trades  an'  laid  up  money ;  but 
I  don't  know  's  it 's  so  now." 

"  Yes,  the  fellows  that  stayed  at  home  got 
all  the  fat  places,  an'  when  we  come  back  we 
felt  dreadful  behind  the  times,"  grumbled 
Asa  Brown.  "  I  remember  how  't  was." 

"They  begun  to  call  us  heroes  an'  old 
stick-in-the-mud  just  about  the  same  time," 
resumed  Stover,  with  a  chuckle.  "  We  wa'n't 
no  hand  for  strippin'  woodland  nor  even 
tradin'  hosses  them  first  few  years.  I  don' 
know  why  't  was  we  were  so  beat  out.  The 
best  most  on  us  could  do  was  to  sag  right  on 
to  the  old  folks.  Father  he  never  wanted 
me  to  go  to  the  war,  —  't  was  partly  his  Qua- 


46  DECORATION  DAY. 

ker  breed,  —  an'  he  used  to  be  dreadful 
mortified  with  the  way  I  hung  round  down 
here  to  the  store  an'  loafed  round  a-talkin' 
about  when  I  was  out  South,  an'  arguin.'  with 
folks  that  did  n't  know  nothin',  about  what 
the  generals  done.  There  !  I  see  me  now  just 
as  he  see  me  then ;  but  after  I  had  my  boy- 
strut  out,  I  took  holt  o'  the  old  farm  'long  o' 
father,  an'  I  've  made  it  bounce.  Look  at 
them  old  meadows  an'  see  the  herd's  grass 
that  come  off  of  'em  last  year !  I  ain't 
ashamed  o'  my  place  now,  if  I  did  go  to  the 
war." 

"  It  all  looks  a  sight  bigger  to  me  now 
than  it  did  then,"  said  Henry  Merrill.  "  Our 
goin'  to  the  war,  I  refer  to.  We  did  n't  sense 
it  no  more  than  other  folks  did.  I  used  to 
be  sick  o'  hearin'  their  stuff  about  patriotism 
and  lovin'  your  country,  an'  them  pieces  o' 
poetry  women  folks  wrote  for  the  papers  on 
the  old  flag,  an'  our  fallen  heroes,  an'  them 
things ;  they  did  n't  seem  to  strike  me  in  the 
right  place ;  but  I  tell  ye  it  kind  o'  starts 
me  now  every  time  I  come  on  the  flag  sud 
den,  —  it  does  so.  A  spell  ago  —  'long  in 
the  fall,  I  guess  it  was  —  I  was  over  to  Al 
ton,  an'  there  was  a  fire  company  paradin'. 
They  'd  got  the  prize  at  a  fair,  an'  had  just 


DECORATION  DAY.  47 

come  home  on  the  cars,  an'  I  heard  the  band; 
so  I  stepped  to  the  front  o'  the  store  where 
me  an'  my  woman  was  tradin',  an'  the  com 
pany  felt  well,  an'  was  comin'  along  the  street 
'most  as  good  as  troops.  I  see  the  old  flag 
a-comiii',  kind  of  blowin'  back,  an'  it  went 
all  over  me.  Somethin'  worked  round  in  my 
throat ;  I  vow  I  come  near  cryin'.  I  was 
glad  nobody  see  me." 

"  I  'd  go  to  war  again  in  a  minute,"  de 
clared  Stover,  after  an  expressive  pause ; 
"  but  I  expect  we  should  know  better  what 
we  was  about.  I  don'  know  but  we  've  got 
too  many  rooted  opinions  now  to  make  us 
the  best  o'  soldiers." 

"  Martin  Tighe  an'  John  Tighe  was  con 
siderable  older  than  the  rest,  and  they 
done  well,"  answered  Henry  Merrill  quickly. 
"  We  three  was  the  youngest  of  any,  but  we 
did  think  at  the  time  we  knew  the  most." 

"  Well,  whatever  you  may  say,  that  war 
give  the  country  a  great  start,"  said  Asa 
Brown.  "  I  tell  ye  we  just  begin  to  see  the 
scope  on  't.  There  was  my  cousin,  you  know, 
Dan'l  Evins,  that  stopped  with  us  last  win 
ter  ;  he  was  tellin'  me  that  one  o'  his  coastin' 
trips  he  was  into  the  port  o'  Beaufort  lo'din' 
with  yaller-pine  lumber,  an'  he  roved  into  an 


48  DECORATION  DAY. 

old  buryin'-ground  there  is  there,  an'  he  see 
a  stone  that  had  on  it  some  young  Southern 
fellow's  name  that  was  killed  in  the  war,  an' 
under  it  was,  '  He  died  for  his  country.' 
Dan'l  knowed  how  I  used  to  feel  about  them 
South  Car'lina  goings  on,  an'  I  did  feel  kind 
o'  red  an'  ugly  for  a  minute,  an'  then  some- 
thin'  come  over  me,  an'  I  says,  '  Well,  I  don' 
know  but  what  the  poor  chap  did,  Dan  Evins, 
when  you  come  to  view  it  all  round.' ' 

The  other  men  made  no  answer. 

"Le's  see  what  we  can  do  this  year.  I 
don't  care  if  we  be  a  poor  han'ful,"  urged 
Henry  Merrill.  "  The  young  folks  ought  to 
have  the  good  of  it ;  I  'd  like  to  have  my 
boys  see  somethin'  different.  Le's  get  to 
gether  what  men  there  is.  How  many 's  left, 
anyhow?  I  know  there  was  thirty-seven 
went  from  old  Barlow,  three-months'  men 
an'  all." 

"  There  can't  be  over  eight  now,  countin' 
out  Martin  Tighe ;  he  can't  march,"  said 
Stover.  "  No,  't  ain't  worth  while."  But  the 
others  did  not  notice  his  disapproval. 

"  There 's  nine  in  all,"  announced  Asa 
Brown,  after  pondering  and  counting  two  or 
three  times  on  his  fingers.  "  I  can't  make 
us  no  more.  I  never  could  carry  figur's  in 
my  head." 


DECORATION  DAY.  49 

"  I  make  nine,"  said  Merrill.  "  We  '11  have 
Martin  ride,  an'  Jesse  Dean  too,  if  he  will. 
He  's  awful  lively  on  them  canes  o'  his.  An' 
there 's  Jo  Wade  with  his  crutch ;  he 's 
amazin'  spry  for  a  short  distance.  But  we 
can't  let  'em  go  far  afoot ;  they  're  decripped 
men.  We  '11  make  'em  all  put  on  what 
they  've  got  left  o'  their  uniforms,  an'  we  '11 
scratch  round  an'  have  us  a  fife  an'  drum, 
an'  make  the  best  show  we  can." 

"  Why,  Martin  Tighe's  boy,  the  next  to 
the  oldest,  is  an  excellent  hand  to  play  the 
fife  ! "  said  John  Stover,  suddenly  growing 
enthusiastic.  "If  you  two  are  set  on  it, 
let 's  have  a  word  with  the  minister  to-mor 
row,  an'  see  what  he  says.  Perhaps  he  '11 
give  out  some  kind  of  a  notice.  You  have 
to  'have  a  good  many  bunches  o'  flowers.  I 
guess  we  'd  better  call  a  meetin',  some  few 
on  us,  an'  talk  it  over  first  o'  the  week. 
'T  would  n't  be  no  great  of  a  range  for  us  to 
take  to  march  from  the  old  buryin '-ground 
at  the  meetm'-house  here  up  to  the  poor-farm 
an'  round  by  Deacon  Elwell's  lane,  so  's  to 
notice  them  two  stones 'he  set  up  for  his  boys 
that  was  sunk  on  the  man-o'-war.  I  expect 
they  notice  stones  same  's  if  the  folks  laid 
there,  don't  they?" 


50  DECORATION  DAY. 

He  spoke  wistfully.  The  others  knew  that 
Stover  was  thinking  of  the  stone  he  had  set 
up  to  the  memory  of  his  only  brother,  whose 
nameless  grave  had  been  made  somewhere  in 
the  Wilderness. 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  they  '11  be  mad 
if  we  don't  go  by  every  house  in  town,"  he 
added  anxiously,  as  they  rose  to  go  home. 
"  'T  is  a  terrible  scattered  population  in  Bar 
low  to  favor  with  a  procession." 

It  was  a  mild  starlit  night.  The  three 
friends  took  their  separate  ways  presently, 
leaving  the  Plains  road  and  crossing  the 
fields  by  foot-paths  toward  their  farms. 


II. 

The  week  went  by,  and  the  next  Saturday 
morning  brought  fair  weather.  It  was  a  busy 
morning  on  the  farms  —  like  any  other ;  but 
long  before  noon  the  teams  of  horses  and 
oxen  were  seen  going  home  from  work  in  the 
fields,  and  everybody  got  ready  in  haste  for 
the  great  event  of  the  afternoon.  It  was  so 
seldom  that  any  occasion  roused  public  in 
terest  in  Barlow  that  there  was  an  unexpected 
response,  and  the  green  before  the  old  white 


DECORATION  DAY.  51 

meeting-house  was  covered  with  country  wag 
ons  and  groups  of  people,  whole  families 
together,  who  had  come  on  foot.  The  old 
soldiers  were  to  meet  in  the  church ;  at  half 
past  one  the  procession  was  to  start,  and 
on  its  return  the  minister  was  to  make  an 
address  in  the  old  bury  ing-ground.  John 
Stover  had  been  first  lieutenant  in  the  war, 
so  he  was  made  captain  of  the  day.  A  man 
from  the  next  town  had  offered  to  drum  for 
them,  and  Martin  Tighe's  proud  boy  was 
present  with  his  fife.  He  had  a  great  long 
ing  —  strange  enough  in  that  peaceful,  sheep- 
raising  neighborhood  —  to  go  into  the  army  ; 
but  he  and  his  elder  brother  were  the  main 
stay  of  their  crippled  father,  and  he  could 
not  be  spared  from  the  large  household  until 
a  younger  brother  could  take  his  place ;  so 
that  all  his  fire  and  military  zeal  went  for  the 
present  into  martial  tunes,  and  the  fife  was 
a  safety-valve  for  his  enthusiasm. 

The  army  men  were  used  to  seeing  each 
other ;  everybody  knew  everybody  in  the 
little  country  town  of  Barlow ;  but  when  one 
comrade  after  another  appeared  in  what  re 
mained  of  his  accoutrements,  they  felt  the 
day  to  be  greater  than  they  had  planned,  and 
the  simple  ceremony  proved  more  solemn  than 


52  DECORATION  DAY. 

any  one  expected.  They  could  make  no  use 
of  their  every-day  jokes  and  friendly  greet 
ings.  Their  old  blue  coats  and  tarnished 
army  caps  looked  faded  and  antiquated 
enough.  One  of  the  men  had  nothing  left 
but  his  rusty  canteen  and  rifle  ;  but  these  he 
carried  like  sacred  emblems.  He  had  worn 
out  all  his  army  clothes  long  ago,  because 
he  was  too  poor  when  he  was  discharged  to 
buy  any  others. 

When  the  door  of  the  church  opened,  the 
veterans  were  not  abashed  by  the  size  and 
silence  of  the  crowd.  They  came  walking 
two  by  two  down  the  steps,  and  took  their 
places  in  line  as  if  there  were  nobody  looking 
on.  Their  brief  evolutions  were  like  a  mystic 
rite.  The  two  lame  men  refused  to  do  any 
thing  but  march  as  best  they  could ;  but  poor 
Martin  Tighe,  more  disabled  than  they,  was 
brought  out  and  lifted  into  Henry  Merrill's 
best  wagon,  where  he  sat  up,  straight  and 
soldierly,  with  his  boy  for  driver.  There  was 
a  little  flag  in  the  whip-socket  before  him, 
which  flapped  gayly  in  the  breeze.  It  was 
such  a  long  time  since  he  had  been  seen  out- 
of-doors  that  everybody  found  him  a  great 
object  of  interest,  and  paid  him  much  atten 
tion.  Even  those  who  were  tired  of  being 


DECORATION  DAY.  53 

asked  to  contribute  to  his  support,  who  re 
sented  the  fact  of  his  having  a  helpless  wife 
and  great  family ;  who  always  insisted  that 
with  his  little  pension  and  hopeless  lameness, 
his  fingerless  left  hand  and  failing  sight,  he 
could  support  himself  and  his  household  if 
he  chose,  —  even  those  persons  came  forward 
now  to  greet  him  handsomely  and  with  large 
approval.  To  be  sure,  he  enjoyed  the  con 
versation  of  idlers,  and  his  wife  had  a  com 
plaining  way  that  was  the  same  as  begging, 
especially  since  her  boys  began  to  grow  up 
and  be  of  some  use ;  and  there  were  one  or 
two  near  neighbors  who  never  let  them  really 
want ;  so  other  people,  who  had  cares  enough 
of  their  own,  could  excuse  themselves  for  for 
getting  him  the  year  round,  and  even  call 
him  shiftless.  But  there  were  none  to  look 
askance  at  Martin  Tighe  011  Decoration  Day, 
as  he  sat  in  the  wagon,  with  his  bleached 
face  like  a  captive's,  and  his  thin,  afflicted 
body.  He  stretched  out  his  whole  hand  im 
partially  to  those  who  had  remembered  and 
those  who  had  forgotten  both  his  courage  at 
Fredericksburg  and  his  sorry  need  in  Barlow. 
Henry  Merrill  had  secured  the  engine  com 
pany's  large  flag  in  Alton,  and  now  carried 
it  proudly.  There  were  eight  men  in  line, 


54  DECORATION  DAY. 

two  by  two,  and  marching  a  good  bit  apart, 
to  make  their  line  the  longer.  The  fife  and 
drum  struck  up  gallantly  together,  and  the 
little  procession  moved  away  slowly  along 
the  country  road.  It  gave  an  unwonted  touch 
of  color  to  the  landscape,  —  the  scarlet,  the 
blue,  between  the  new-ploughed  fields  and 
budding  roadside  thickets,  between  the  wide 
dim  ranges  of  the  mountains,  under  the  great 
white  clouds  of  the  spring  sky.  Such  pro 
cessions  grow  more  pathetic  year  by  year ;  it 
will  not  be  so  long  now  before  wondering 
children  will  have  seen  the  last.  The  aging 
faces  of  the  men,  the  renewed  comradeship, 
the  quick  beat  of  the  hearts  that  remember, 
the  tenderness  of  those  who  think  upon  old 
sorrows,  —  all  these  make  the  day  a  lovelier 
and  a  sadder  festival.  So  men's  hearts  were 
stirred,  they  knew  not  why,  when  they  heard 
the  shrill  fife  and  the  incessant  drum  along 
the  quiet  Barlow  road,  and  saw  the  handful 
of  old  soldiers  marching  by.  Nobody  thought 
of  them  as  familiar  men  and  neighbors  alone, 
—  they  were  a  part  of  that  army  which  had 
saved  its  country.  They  had  taken  their 
lives  in  their  hands  and  gone  out  to  fight  for 
their  country,  plain  John  Stover  and  Jesse 
Dean  and  the  rest.  No  matter  if  every  other 


DECORATION  DAY.  55 

day  in  the  year  they  counted  for  little  or 
much,  whether  they  were  lame-footed  and 
lagging,  whether  their  farms  were  of  poor 
soil  or  rich. 

The  little  troop  went  in  slender  line  along 
the  road ;  the  crowded  country  wagons  and 
all  the  people  who  went  afoot  followed  Mar 
tin  Tighe's  wagon  as  if  it  were  a  great 
gathering  at  a  country  funeral.  The  route 
was  short,  and  the  long,  straggling  line 
marched  slowly ;  it  could  go  no  faster  than 
the  lame  men  could  walk. 

In  one  of  the  houses  by  the  roadside  an 
old  woman  sat  by  a  window,  in  an  old-fash 
ioned  black  gown,  and  clean  white  cap  with 
a  prim  border  which  bound  her  thin,  sharp 
features  closely.  She  had  been  for  a  long 
time  looking  out  eagerly  over  the  snowberry 
and  cinnamon  -  rose  bushes  ;  her  face  was 
pressed  close  to  the  pane,  and  presently  she 
caught  sight  of  the  great  flag  as  it  came 
down  the  road. 

"  Let  me  see  'em  !  I  've  got  to  see  'em  go 
by ! "  she  pleaded,  trying  to  rise  from  her  chair 
alone  when  she  heard  the  fife,  and  the  women 
helped  her  to  the  door,  and  held  her  so  that 
she  could  stand  and  wait.  She  had  been  an 
old  woman  when  the  war  began ;  she  had 


56  DECORATION  DAY. 

sent  sons  and  grandsons  to  the  field;  they 
were  all  gone  now.  As  the  men  came  by, 
she  straightened  her  bent  figure  with  all  the 
vigor  of  youth.  The  fife  and  drum  stopped 
suddenly ;  the  colors  lowered.  She  did  not 
heed  that,  but  her  old  eyes  flashed  and  then 
filled  with  tears  to  see  the  flag  going  to  salute 
the  soldiers'  graves.  "  Thank  ye,  boys ;  thank 
ye !  "  she  cried,  in  her  quavering  voice,  and 
they  all  cheered  her.  The  cheer  went  back 
along  the  straggling  line  for  old  Grand 
mother  Dexter,  standing  there  in  her  front 
door  between  the  lilacs.  It  was  one  of  the 
great  moments  of  the  day. 

The  few  old  people  at  the  poor-house,  too, 
were  waiting  to  see  the  show.  The  keeper's 
young  son,  knowing  that  it  was  a  day  of 
festivity,  and  not  understanding  exactly  why, 
had  put  his  toy  flag  out  of  the  gable  window, 
and  there  it  showed  against  the  gray  clap 
boards  like  a  gay  flower.  It  was  the  only 
bit  of  decoration  along  the  veterans'  way, 
and  they  stopped  and  saluted  it  before  they 
broke  ranks  and  went  out  to  the  field  corner 
beyond  the  poor-farm  barn  to  the  bit  of 
ground  that  held  the  paupers'  unmarked 
graves.  There  was  a  solemn  silence  while 
Asa  Brown  went  to  the  back  of  Tighe's 


DECORATION  DAY.  57 

wagon,  where  such  light  freight  was  carried, 
and  brought  two  flags,  and  he  and  John 
Stover  planted  them  straight  in  the  green 
sod.  They  knew  well  enough  where  the 
right  graves  were,  for  these  had  been  made 
in  a  corner  by  themselves,  with  unwonted 
sentiment.  And  so  Eben  Munson  and  John 
Tighe  were  honored  like  the  rest,  both  by 
their  flags  and  by  great  and  unexpected 
nosegays  of  spring  flowers,  daffies  and  flower 
ing  currant  and  red  tulips,  which  lay  on  the 
graves  already.  John  Stover  and  his  com 
rade  glanced  at  each  other  curiously  while 
they  stood  singing,  and  then  laid  their  own 
bunches  of  lilacs  down  and  came  away. 

Then  something  happened  that  almost 
none  of  the  people  in  the  wagons  understood. 
Martin  Tighe's  boy,  who  played  the  fife,  had 
studied  well  his  part,  and  on  his  poor  short- 
winded  instrument  now  sounded  taps  as  well 
as  he  could.  He  had  heard  it  done  once  in 
Alton  at  a  soldier's  funeral.  The  plaintive 
notes  called  sadly  over  the  fields,  and  echoed 
back  from  the  hills.  The  few  veterans  could 
not  look  at  each  other ;  their  eyes  brimmed 
up  with  tears ;  they  could  not  have  spoken. 
Nothing  called  back  old  army  days  like  that. 
They  had  a  sudden  vision  of  the  Virginian 


58  DECORATION  DAY. 

camp,  the  hillside  dotted  white  with  tents, 
the  twinkling  lights  in  other  camps,  and  far 
away  the  glow  of  smouldering  fires.  They 
heard  the  bugle  call  from  post  to  post ;  they 
remembered  the  chilly  winter  night,  the  wind 
in  the  pines,  the  laughter  of  the  men.  Lights 
out !  Martin  Tighe's  boy  sounded  it  again 
sharply.  It  seemed  as  if  poor  Eb  Munson 
and  John  Tighe  must  hear  it  too  in  their 
narrow  graves. 

The  procession  went  on,  and  stopped  here 
and  there  at  the  little  graveyards  on  the 
farms,  leaving  their  bright  flags  to  flutter 
through  summer  and  winter  rains  and  snows, 
and  to  bleach  in  the  wind  and  sunshine. 
When  they  returned  to  the  church,  the  min 
ister  made  an  address  about  the  war,  and 
every  one  listened  with  new  ears.  Most  of 
what  he  said  was  familiar  enough  to  his  lis 
teners  ;  they  were  used  to  reading  those 
phrases  about  the  results  of  the  war,  the 
glorious  future  of  the  South,  in  their  weekly 
newspapers ;  but  there  never  had  been  such 
a  spirit  of  patriotism  and  loyalty  waked  in 
Barlow  as  was  waked  that  day  by  the  poor 
parade  of  the  remnant  of  the  Barlow  soldiers. 
They  sent  flags  to  all  the  distant  graves,  and 
proud  were  those  households  who  claimed 


DECORATION  DAY.  59 

kinship  with  valor,  and  could  drive  or  walk 
away  with  their  flags  held  up  so  that  others 
could  see  that  they,  too,  were  of  the  elect. 


III. 

It  is  well  that  the  days  are  long  in  the  last 
of  May,  but  John  Stover  had  to  hurry  more 
than  usual  with  his  evening  work,  and  then, 
having  the  longest  distance  to  walk,  he  was 
much  the  latest  comer  to  the  Plains  store, 
where  his  two  triumphant  friends  were  wait 
ing  for  him  impatiently  on  the  bench.  They 
also  had  made  excuse  of  going  to  the  post- 
office  and  doing  an  unnecessary  errand  for 
their  wives,  and  were  talking  together  so 
busily  that  they  had  gathered  a  group  about 
them  before  the  store.  When  they  saw 
Stover  coming,  they  rose  hastily  and  crossed 
the  road  to  meet  him,  as  if  they  were  a  com 
mittee  in  special  session.  They  leaned  against 
the  post -and -board  fence,  after  they  had 
shaken  hands  with  each  other  solemnly. 

"  Well,  we  've  had  a  great  day,  ain't  we, 
John?"  asked  Henry  Merrill.  "You  did 
lead  off  splendid.  We  've  done  a  grand 
thing,  now,  I  tell  you.  All  the  folks  say 


60  DECORATION  DAY. 

we  've  got  to  keep  it  up  every  year.  Every 
body  had  to  have  a  talk  about  it  as  I  went 
home.  They  say  they  had  no  idea  we  should 
make  such  a  show.  Lord  !  I  wish  we  'd  be 
gun  while  there  was  more  of  us !  " 

"That  han'some  flag  was  the  great  fea 
ture,"  said  Asa  Brown  generously.  "  I  want 
to  pay  my  part  for  hirin'  it.  An'  then  folks 
was  glad  to  see  poor  old  Martin  made  o'  some 
consequence." 

"  There  was  half  a  dozen  said  to  me  that 
another  year  they  was  goin'  to  have  flags  out, 
and  trim  up  their  places  somehow  or  'nother. 
Folks  has  feelin'  enough,  but  you  've  got  to 
rouse  it,"  said  Merrill. 

"I  have  thought  o'  joinin'  the  Grand 
Army  over  to  Alton  time  an'  again,  but  it 's 
a  good  ways  to  go,  an'  then  the  expense  has 
been  o'  some  consideration,"  Asa  continued. 
"  I  don't  know  but  two  or  three  over  there. 
You  know,  most  o'  the  Alton  men  nat'rally 
went  out  in  the  rigiments  t'  other  side  o'  the 
State  line,  an'  they  was  in  other  battles,  an' 
never  camped  nowheres  nigh  us.  Seems  to 
me  we  ought  to  have  home  feelin'  enough  to 
do  what  we  can  right  here." 

"The  minister  says  to  me  this  afternoon 
that  he  was  goin'  to  arrange  an'  have  some 


DECORATION  DAY.  61 

talks  in  the  meetin'-house  next  winter,  an' 
have  some  of  us  tell  where  we  was  in  the 
South;  an'  one  night  't  will  be  about  camp 
life,  an'  one  about  the  long  marches,  an' 
then  about  the  battles,  —  that  would  take 
some  time,  —  an'  tell  all  we  could  about 
the  boys  that  was  killed,  an'  their  record, 
so  they  would  n't  be  forgot.  He  said  some 
of  the  folks  must  have  the  letters  we  wrote 
home  from  the  front,  an'  we  could  make  out 
quite  a  history  of  us.  I  call  Elder  Dallas 
a  very  smart  man ;  he  'd  planned  it  all  out 
a'ready,  for  the  benefit  o'  the  young  folks, 
he  said,"  announced  Henry  Merrill,  in  a  tone 
of  approval. 

"  I  s'pose  there  ain't  none  of  us  but  could 
add  a  little  somethin',"  answered  John  Stover 
modestly.  "  'T  would  re'lly  learn  the  young 
folks  a  good  deal.  I  should  be  scared  numb 
to  try  an'  speak  from  the  pulpit.  That  ain't 
what  the  Elder  means,  is  it  ?  Now  I  was  one 
that  had  a  good  chance  to  see  somethin'  o' 
Washington.  I  shook  hands  with  President 
Lincoln,  an'  I  always  think  I  'm  worth 
lookin'  at  for  that,  if  I  ain't  for  nothin'  else. 
'T  was  that  time  I  was  just  out  o'  hospit'l,  an' 
able  to  crawl  about  some.  I  've  often  told 
you  how  't  was  I  met  him,  an'  he  stopped  an' 


62  DECORATION  DAY. 

shook  hands  an'  asked  where  I  'd  been  at  the 
front  an'  how  I  was  gettin'  along  with  my 
hurts.  Well,  we  '11  see  how  't  is  when  win 
ter  comes.  I  never  thought  I  had  no  gift  for 
public  speakin',  'less  't  was  for  drivin'  cattle 
or  polliii'  the  house  town-meetin'  days.  Here ! 
I  've  got  somethin'  in  mind.  You  need  n't 
speak  about  it  if  I  tell  it  to  ye,"  he  added 
suddenly.  "You  know  all  them  han'some 
flowers  that  was  laid  on  to  Eb  Munson's 
grave  an'  Tighe's  ?  I  mistrusted  you  thought 
the  same  thing  I  did  by  the  way  you  looked. 
They  come  from  Marthy  Down's  front  yard. 
My  woman  told  me  when  we  got  home  that 
she  knew  'em  in  a  minute ;  there  wa'ii't  no 
body  in  town  had  that  kind  o'  red  flowers 
but  her.  She  must  ha'  kind  o'  harked  back 
to  the  days  whe,n  she  was  Marthy  Peck.  She 
must  have  come  over  with  'em  after  dark,  or 
else  dreadful  early  in  the  mornin'." 

Henry  Merrill  cleared  his  throat.  "  There 
ain't  no  thin'  half-way  'bout  Mis'  Down,"  he 
said.  "  I  would  n't  ha'  spoken  'bout  this 
'less  you  had  led  right  on  to  it ;  but  I  over 
took  her  when  I  was  gittin'  towards  home 
this  afternoon,  an'  I  see  by  her  looks  she  was 
worked  up  a  good  deal ;  but  we  talked  about 
how  well  things  had  gone  off,  an'  she  wanted 


DECORATION   DAY.  63 

to  know  what  expenses  we  'd  been  put  to,  an' 
I  told  her ;  and  she  said  she  'd  give  five  dol 
lars  any  day  I  'd  stop  in  for  it.  An'  then  she 
spoke  right  out.  ;  I  'm  alone  in  the  world,' 
says  she, 4  and  I  've  got  somethin'  to  do  with, 
an'  I  'd  like  to  have  a  plain  stone  put  up  to 
Eb  Munson's  grave,  with  the  number  of  his 
rigiment  on  it,  an'  I  '11  pay  the  bill.  'T  ain't 
out  o'  Mr.  Down's  money,'  she  says ;  4  't  is 
mine,  an'  I  want  you  to  see  to  it.'  I  said  I 
would,  but  we  'd  made  a  plot  to  git  some  o' 
them  soldiers'  headstones  that 's  provided  by 
the  government.  'T  was  a  shame  it  had  been 
overlooked  so  long.  'No,'  says  she;  'I'm 
goin'  to  pay  for  Eb's  myself.'  An'  I  told 
her  there  would  n't  be  no  objection.  Don't 
ary  one  o'  you  speak  about  it.  'T  would  n't 
be  fair.  She  was  real  well-appearin'.  I 
never  felt  to  respect  Marthy  so  before." 

"  We  was  kind  o'  hard  on  her  sometimes, 
but  folks  could  n't  help  it.  I  've  seen  her 
pass  Eb  right  by  in  the  road  an'  never  look 
at  him  when  he  first  come  home,"  said  John 
Stover. 

"  If  she  had  n't  felt  bad,  she  would  n't  have 
cared  one  way  or  t'  other,"  insisted  Henry 
Merrill.  "'T ain't  for  us  to  judge.  Some 
times  folks  has  to  get  along  in  years  before 


64  DECORATION  DAY. 

they  see  things  fair.    Come ;  I  must  be  goin' 
home.     I  'm  tired  as  an  old  dog." 

"  It  seemed  kind  o'  natural  to  be  steppin' 
out  together  again.  Strange  we  three  got 
through  with  so  little  damage,  an'  so  many 
dropped  round  us,"  said  Asa  Brown.  "  I  've 
never  been  one  mite  sorry  I  went  out  in  old 
A  Company.  I  was  thinkin'  when  I  was 
marchin'  to-day,  though,  that  we  should  all 
have  to  take  to  the  wagons  before  long  an' 
do  our  marchin'  on  wheels,  so  many  of  us 
felt  kind  o'  stiff.  There  's  one  thing,  —  folks 
won't  never  say  again  that  we  can't  show 
no  public  sperit  here  in  old  Barlow." 


JIM'S  LITTLE  WOMAN. 
I. 

THERE  was  laughter  in  the  lanes  of  St. 
Augustine  when  Jim  returned  from  a  North 
ern  voyage  with  a  Northern  wife.  He  had 
sailed  on  the  schooner  Dawn  of  Day,  one 
hundred  and  ninety-two  tons  burden,  with  a 
full  cargo  of  yellow  pine  and  conch-shells. 
Not  that  the  conch-shells  were  mentioned  in 
the  bill  of  lading,  any  more  than  five  hand 
some  tortoise-shells  that  were  securely  lashed 
to  the  beams  in  the  captain's  cabin.  These 
were  a  private  venture  of  the  captain's  and 
Jim's.  The  Dawn  of  Day  did  a  great  deal 
of  trading  with  the  islands,  and  it  was  only 
when  the  season  of  Northern  tourists  was 
over  that  her  owners  found  it  more  profitable 
to  charter  her  in  the  lumber  business.  It 
was  too  hot  for  bringing  any  more  bananas 
from  Jamaica,  the  last  were  half  spoiled  in 
the  hold;  and  those  Northerners  who  came 
excitedly  after  corals  and  sprouted  cocoa- 


66  JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN. 

nuts  and  Jamaica  baskets,  who  would  gladly 
pay  thirty  cents  apiece  for  the  best  of  the 
conch-shells,  brought  primarily  by  way  of 
ballast,  —  those  enthusiastic,  money  -  squan 
dering  Northerners  had  all  flown  homeward 
at  the  first  hints  of  unmistakable  summer 
heat,  and  market  was  over  for  that  spring. 

St.  Augustine  is  a  city  of  bright  sunshine 
and  of  cool  sea  winds,  a  different  place  from 
the  steaming-hot,  listless-aired  Southern  ports 
which  Jim  knew  well,  —  Kingston  and  Nas 
sau  and  the  rest.  He  had  sailed  between 
the  islands  and  St.  Augustine  and  Savannah, 
and  made  trading  voyages  round  into  the 
Gulf,  ever  since  he  ran  away  to  sea  on  an 
ancient  brigantine  bound  for  Havana,  in 
his  early  youth.  Jim's  grandfather  was  a 
Northern  man  by  birth,  a  New-Englander, 
who  had  married  a  Minorcan  woman,  and 
settled  clown  in  St.  Augustine  to  spend  the 
rest  of  his  days.  Their  old  coquina  house 
near  the  sea-wall  faced  one  of  the  narrow 
lanes  that  ran  up  from  the  water,  but  it  had 
a  wide  window  in  the  seaward  end,  and  here 
Jim  remembered  that  the  intemperate  old 
sailor  sat  and  watched  the  harbor,  and  criti 
cised  the  rigging  of  vessels,  and  defended 
his  pet  orange-tree  from  the  ravages  of  boys. 


JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN.  67 

His  wife  died  long  before  he  did,  and  the 
daughter,  Jim's  mother,  was  married,  and 
her  husband  ran  away  and  never  was  heard 
from,  and  Jim  himself  was  ten  years  old 
when  he  walked  at  the  head  of  the  funeral 
procession,  dimly  imagining  that  the  old  man 
had  gone  up  North,  and  that  he  was  to  live 
again  there  among  the  scenes  of  his  youth. 
There  were  a  few  old  shipmates  walking  two 
by  two,  who  had  known  the  captain  in  his 
active  life,  but  they  held  no  definite  views 
about  his  permanent  location  in  high  lati 
tudes.  Still,  there  was  a  long  procession 
and  a  handsome  funeral ;  and  after  a  few 
years  Jim's  mother  died  too,  a  friendly,  sad- 
faced  little  creature  whom  everybody  la 
mented.  Jim  came  into  port  one  day  after 
a  long  absence,  expecting  to  be  kissed  and 
cried  over  and  coaxed  to  church  and  mended 
up,  to  find  the  old  coquina  house  locked  and 
empty.  He  shipped  again  gloomily ;  there 
was  nothing  for  him  to  do  ashore ;  and  that 
year  the  boys  took  all  the  oranges,  and 
people  said  that  the  old  captain's  ghost  lived 
in  the  house.  The  bishop  stopped  Jim  one 
day  on  the  plaza,  and  told  him  that  he  must 
come  to  church  sometimes  for  his  mother's 
sake :  she  was  a  good  little  woman,  and  had 


68  JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN. 

said  many  a  prayer  for  her  boy.  Did  Jim 
ever  say  a  prayer  for  himself?  It  was  a 
hard  life,  going  to  sea,  and  he  must  not  let 
it  be  too  hard  for  his  soul.  "  Marry  you  a 
good  wife  soon,"  said  the  kind  bishop.  "  Be 
a  good  man  in  your  own  town ;  you  will  be 
tired  of  roving  and  will  want  a  home.  God 
have  pity  on  you,  my  boy !  " 

Jim  took  off  his  hat  reverently,  and  his 
frank,  bold  eyes  met  the  bishop's  sad,  kind 
eyes,  and  fell.  He  had  never  really  thought 
what  a  shocking  sort  of  fellow  he  was  until 
that  moment.  He  had  grown  used  to  his 
mother's  crying,  but  it  was  two  or  three 
years  now  since  she  died.  The  fellows  on 
board  ship  were  afraid  of  him  when  he  was 
surly,  and  owned  him  for  king  when  he 
was  pleased  to  turn  life  into  a  joke.  He 
was  Northern  and  Southern  by  turns,  this 
Southern-born  young  sailor.  He  could  talk 
in  Yankee  fashion  like  his  grandfather  until 
the  crew  shook  the  ship's  timbers  with  their 
laughter.  But  in  all  his  roving  sea-life  he 
had  never  been  to  the  coast  of  Maine  until 
this  story  begins. 

The  Dawn  of  Day  was  a  slow  sailer,  and 
what  wind  she  had  was  only  a  light  south 
westerly  breeze.  Every  other  day  was  a 


JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN.  69 

dead  calm,  and  so  tliey  drifted  up  the  North 
ern  coast  as  if  the  Gulf  Stream  alone  im 
pelled  them,  making  for  the  island  of  Mount 
Desert  with  their  yellow  pine  for  house- 
finishing;  and  somewhere  near  Boothbay 
Harbor  their  provisions  got  low,  and  the 
drinking-water  was  too  bad  altogether,  and 
there  was  nothing  else  left  to  drink,  so  the 
captain  put  in  for  supplies.  They  could  not 
get  up  to  the  inner  harbor  next  the  town, 
but  came  to  anchor  near  a  little  village  when 
the  wind  fell  at  sundown.  There  were 
some  houses  in  sight,  dotted  along  the  shore, 
and  a  long,  low  building  at  the  water's  edge, 
close  to  the  little  bay.  Jim  and  the  captain 
and  another  man  pulled  ashore  to  see  what 
could  be  done  about  the  water-casks,  and  the 
old  water-tank,  which  had  been  rusty,  was 
leaky  and  good  for  nothing  when  they  first 
put  to  sea. 

Jim  went  ashore,  and  presently  put  his 
head  into  a  window  of  the  long,  low  build 
ing  ;  there  were  a  dozen  young  people  there, 
and  two  or  three  men,  with  heaps  of  lobster 
shells  and  long  rows  of  shining  cans.  It 
was  a  lobster -canning  establishment,  and 
work  was  going  on  after  hours.  Somebody 
screamed  when  Jim's  shaggy  head  and  broad 


70  JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN. 

shoulders  shut  out  the  little  daylight  that 
was  left,  and  a  bevy  of  girls  laughed  provok- 
ingly  ;  but  one  of  them  —  Jim  thought  she 
was  a  child  until  she  came  quite  close  to  him 
—  asked  what  he  wanted,  and  listened  with 
intelligent  patience  until  he  had  quite  ex 
plained  his  errand.  It  proved  easy  to  get 
somebody  to  solder  up  the  water-tank,  and 
in  spite  of  the  other  girls  this  little  red- 
haired,  white-faced  creature  caught  her  hat 
from  a  nail  by  the  door,  and  went  off  with 
Jim  to  find  the  solderer,  who  lived  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  down  the  shore. 

Jim  thought  of  the  old  bishop  many  times 
as  he  walked  decently  along  by  the  little 
woman's  side.  He  thought  of  his  mother,  too, 
and  how  she  used  to  cry  over  him  ;  he  never 
pitied  her  for  it  before.  He  remembered 
his  cross  old  grandfather  and  those  stories 
about  the  North,  and  by  a  strange  turn  of 
memory  he  mentally  cursed  the  boys  who 
came  to  steal  the  old  man's  oranges,  there  in 
the  garden  of  his  own  empty  little  coquina 
house.  What  a  thing  to  have  a  good  little 
warm-hearted  wife  of  his  own  !  Jim  felt  as 
if  he  had  been  set  on  fire ;  as  if  something 
hindered  him  from  ever  feeling  like  himself 
again  ;  as  if  he  must  forever  belong  to  this 


JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN.  71 

little  bit  of  a  woman,  wlio  almost  ran,  trying 
to  keep  np  with  his  great  rolling  sea  strides 
along  the  road.  She  had  a  clear,  pleasant 
little  voice,  and  kept  looking  up  at  him, 
asking  now  and  then  something  about  the 
voyage  as  if  she  were  used  to  voyages,  and 
seemed  pleased  with  his  gruff,  shy  answers. 
He  heaved  a  great  sigh  when  they  came  to 
the  solderer's  door. 

The  solderer  came  out  and  walked  back 
with  them,  saying  that  his  tools  were  all  at 
the  factory.  He  told  Jim  that  there  was 
the  best  cold  spring  on  the  coast  convenient 
to  the  schooner,  just  beyond  the  factory,  and 
a  good  grocery  store  near  by.  There  was 
no  reason  for  going  up  to  Boothbay  Harbor 
and  losing  all  that  time  in  the  morning, 
and  Jim's  heart  grew  light  at  the  news.  He 
sent  the  solderer  off  to  the  schooner,  and 
stayed  ashore  himself.  The  captain  had  al 
ready  heard  about  the  grocery,  and  had  gone 
there.  The  grumbling  member  of  the  crew, 
who  was  left  in  the  boat,  looked  back  with 
heart-felt  astonishment  to  see  Jim  sit  down 
on  apiece  of  ship  timber  beside  that  strange 
little  woman,  and  begin  to  talk  with  her  as  if 
they  were  old  friends.  It  was  a  clear  June 
evening,  the  sky  was  pale  yellow  in  the  west, 


72  JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN. 

and  on  the  high  land  above  the  shore  a 
small  jangling  bell  rang  in  its  white  steeple. 
A  salt  breath  of  sea  wind  ruffled  the  smooth 
water.  The  lights  went  out  in  the  canning 
factory  and  twinkled  with  bright  reflections 
from  the  schooner.  The  solderer  finished  his 
work  011  board,  and  was  put  ashore  close  to 
his  own  house  ;  as  for  the  captain,  he  re 
mained  with  some  new-made  friends  at  the 
grocery. 

They  wondered  on  the  deck  of  the  Dawn 
of  Day  what  had  come  over  Jim ;  they 
laughed  and  joked,  and  thought  that  he 
might  have  found  one  of  his  relations  about 
whom  he  had  told  the  Yankee  stories.  As 
long  as  there  was  any  light  to  see,  there  he 
sat,  an  erect,  great  fellow,  with  the  timid- 
looking  little  woman  like  a  child  by  his  side. 
The  captain  came  off  late,  and  in  a  state 
unbefitting  the  laws  of  Maine,  and  Jim  came 
with  him,  sober,  pleasant,  but  holding  his 
head  in  that  high,  proud  way  which  forbade 
any  craven  soul  from  putting  an  unwelcome 
question. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  wind  rose, 
the  Dawn  of  Day  put  out  to  sea  again. 
Somebody  besides  Jim  may  have  noticed 
that  a  white  handkerchief  fluttered  at  one  of 


JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN.  73 

the  canning  -  factory  windows,  but  nobody 
knew  that  it  meant  so  much  to  Jim  as  this : 
the  little  woman  was  going  to  marry  him, 
and  promised  by  that  signal  to  come  to 
Mount  Desert  to  meet  him.  They  had  no 
more  time  for  courtship ;  it  was  now  or 
never  with  the  quick-tempered  fellow.  Lit 
tle  Martha  did  not  dare  to  promise  until 
she  had  thought  it  over  that  night ;  but  she 
was  a  lonely  orphan,  and  had  no  ties  to  keep 
her  there.  Jim  had  told  her  about  his  home 
and  his  orange-tree  in  the  South,  and  when 
morning  came  she  had  thought  it  over  and 
said  yes,  and  then  even  cried  a  little  to  see 
the  old  schooner  go  out  to  sea.  She  said 
yes  because  she  loved  him  ;  because  she  had 
never  thought  that  anybody  would  fall  in 
love  with  her,  she  was  so  small  and  queer, 
and  not  like  the  rest  of  the  girls.  Jim  had 
certainly  waved  his  handkerchief  in  reply ; 
and  as  Marty  remembered  that,  she  felt  in 
her  pocket  for  a  queer  smooth  shell  to  make 
herself  sure  that  she  was  not  dreaming.  Jim 
had  carried  this  shell  in  his  pocket  for  good 
luck,  as  his  strange  old  seafaring  grandfather 
had  done  before  him,  and  by  it  he  plighted 
his  faith  and  troth.  Before  they  sighted 
Monhegan,  running  far  out  to  catch  the 


74  JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN. 

wind,  he  told  the  skipper  that  he  was  going 
to  be  married,  and  expected  to  carry  his  wife 
down  to  St.  Augustine  in  the  Dawn  of  Day. 
The  skipper  swore  roundly,  but  Jim  was 
the  ablest  man  aboard,  and  had  been  shipped 
that  voyage  as  first  mate.  They  were  short- 
handed,  and  he  was  in  Jim's  power  in  many 
ways.  There  was  a  wedding,  before  the 
week  was  out,  at  a  minister's  house,  and  Jim 
gave  the  minister's  wife  a  pretty  basket  of 
shells  besides  what  Marty  considered  to  be  a 
generous  wedding  fee.  He  had  bought  a 
suit  of  ready-made  clothes  before  he  went  to 
the  cousin's  house  where  the  little  woman 
had  promised  to  wait  for  him.  Marty  did 
not  explain  to  this  cousin  that  she  had  only 
seen  her  lover  once  in  the  twilight.  She 
wondered  if  people  would  think  Jim  rough 
and  strange,  that  was  all ;  but  Jim  for  once 
was  in  possession  of  small  savings,  and  when 
he  came,  so  tall  and  dark,  shaven  and 
shorn  and  dressed  like  other  people,  she  fell 
to  crying  with  joy  and  excitement,  and  had 
much  difficulty  in  explaining  to  her  lover 
that  it  was  nothing  but  happiness  and  love 
that  had  brought  such  tears.  And  after  the 
yellow  pine  was  on  the  wharf,  and  the  conch- 
shells  sold  at  unexpected  rates  to  a  dealer  in 


JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN.  75 

curiosities  at  Bar  Harbor,  who  got  news  of 
them,  and  after  much  dickering  gave  but  a 
meagre  price  for  the  tortoises  also,  the  Dawn 
of  Day  set  forth  again  southward  with  dried 
fish  and  flour  from  Portland,  where,  with 
his  share  of  the  conch-shell  gains,  Jim  had 
given  his  wife  such  a  pleasuring  as  he 
thought  a  lord  who  had  an  earldom  at  his 
back  might  give  his  fair  lady. 

When  the  crew  first  caught  sight  of  Jim's 
small,  red-headed,  and  pale-faced  wife,  the 
discrepancy  in  the  size  of  the  happy  couple 
was  more  than  could  be  silently  borne.  Jim 
always  spoke  of  her  as  his  little  woman,  and 
Jim's  little  woman  she  was  to  the  world  in 
general.  She  was  as  proud-spirited  as  he. 
She  seldom  scolded,  but  she  could  grow  pale 
in  the  face  and  keep  silence  if  things  went 
wrong.  The  schooner  was  a  different  place 
on  that  return  voyage.  They  had  the  cap 
tain's  cabin,  and  she  made  it  look  pretty 
with  her  girlish  arts.  She  mended  every 
body's  clothes,  and  took  care  of  the  schooner's 
boy  when  he  was  sick  with  a  fever  turn,  —  a 
hard-faced  little  chap,  who  had  run  about 
from  ship  to  ship,  just  as  Jim  had ;  and 
though  the  wind  failed  them  most  of  the 
time  going  south,  they  were  all  sorry  when 


76  JIM'S   LITTLE    WOMAN. 

they  reached  St.  Augustine  bar.  The  last 
Sunday  night  of  all,  Jim's  little  woman 
got  out  her  Moody  and  Sankey  song-book 
for  the  last  time,  and  sang  every  tune  she 
knew  in  her  sweet,  old-fashioned  voice.  She 
was  rough  in  her  way  sometimes,  but  the 
crew  of  the  Dawn  of  Day  kept  to  the  level 
of  its  best  manners  in  her  hearing  all  the 
time  she  was  on  board.  As  they  lay  out  be 
yond  the  bar,  waiting  for  enough  water  to 
get  in,  she  strained  her  eyes  to  see  her  future 
home.  There  was  the  queer  striped  light 
house,  with  its  corkscrew  pattern  of  black 
and  white,  and  far  beyond  were  the  tall, 
slender  towers  of  a  town  that  looked  beauti 
ful  against  the  sunset,  and  a  long,  low  shore, 
white  with  sand  and  green  here  and  there 
with  a  new  greenness  which  she  believed  to 
be  orange-trees.  She  may  have  had  a  pang 
of  homesickness  for  the  high  ledgy  pasture 
shores  at  home,  but  nobody  ever  guessed  it. 
If  ever  anybody  in  this  world  married  for 
love,  it  was  Jim's  little  woman. 


JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN.  77 


II. 


It  was  not  long  before  the  dismal  little, 
boarded-up,  spidery  coquina  house  was  as 
clean  as  a  whistle,  with  new  glass  windows, 
and  fresh  whitewash  inside  and  yellow  wash 
outside  ;  with  curtains  and  rugs  and  calico 
cushions,  and  a  shining  cooking-stove,-  on 
which  such  meals  were  concocted  as  Jim 
never  dreamed  of  having  for  his  own.  The 
little  woman  had  a  small  inheritance  of 
housekeeping  goods,  which  had  been  packed 
into  the  schooner's  hold ;  luckily  these  had 
been  in  charge  of  the  Northeast  Harbor 
cousin  ;  as  Jim  said,  they  had  to  get  married, 
for  everything  came  right  and  there  was 
nothing  else  to  do.  He  seemed  as  happy  as 
the  day  was  long,  and  for  once  was  glad  to 
be  ashore.  They  went  together  to  do  their 
marketing,  and  he  showed  her  the  gray  old 
fort  one  afternoon  and  the  great  hotels  with 
the  towers.  In  narrow  St.  George  Street, 
under  the  high  flower-lined  balconies,  every 
body  seemed  to  know  Jim,  and  they  had  to 
spend  much  time  in  doing  a  trifling  errand. 
Go  into  St.  George  Street  when  she  would, 
the  narrow  thoroughfare  was  filled  with  peo- 


78  JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN. 

pie,  and  dark-eyed  men  and  women  leaned 
from  the  balconies  and  talked  to  passers-by 
in  a  strange  lingo  which  Jim  seemed  to  know. 
People  laughed  a  good  deal  as  they  passed, 
and  the  little  woman  feared  that  they  might 
think  that  she  was  queer-looking.  She  hated 
to  be  so  little  when  Jim  himself  was  so  big ; 
but  somehow  the  laughter  all  stopped  after 
one  day,  when  a  man  with  an  evil  face  said 
something  in  a  mocking  voice,  and  Jim, 
blazing  with  wrath,  caught  him  by  the  waist 
and  threw  him  over  the  fence  into  a  garden. 

"  They  laugh  to  think  o'  me  getting  so 
small  a  wife,"  said  Jim  frankly  one  day,  in 
one  of  his  best  moods.  "  One  o'  the  boys 
thought  I  'd  raised  me  a  •  f  ambly  while  we 
was  gone,  and  said  I  'd  done  well  for  a  lit 
tle  gal,  but  where  was  the  old  lady.  I  prom 
ised  I  'd  bring  him  round  to  supper  some 
night,  too  ;  he  's  a  good  fellow,"  added  Jim. 
"  We  '11  have  some  o'  your  clam  fritters, 
and  near  about  stuff  him  to  death." 

The  summer  days  flew  by,  and  to  every 
body's  surprise  Jim  lived  the  life  of  a  sober 
man.  He  went  to  work  on  one  of  the  new 
harbor  jetties  at  his  wife's  recommendation, 
and  did  good  service.  He  gave  Marty  his 
pay,  and  was  amused  and  astonished  to  see 


JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN.  79 

how  far  she  made  it  go.  With  plenty  of 
good  food,  he  seemed  to  have  lost  his  craving 
for  drink  in  great  measure  ;  and  they  had 
two  boarders,  steady  men  and  Jim's  mates, 
for  there  was  plenty  of  room  ;  and  the  little 
woman  was  endlessly  busy  and  happy.  Jim 
had  his  dark  Spanish  days  with  a  black 
scowl,  and  Marty  had  her  own  hot  tempers, 
that  came,  as  she  said,  of  the  color  of  her  hair. 
Like  other  people,  they  had  their  great  and 
small  trials  and  troubles,  but  these  always 
ended  in  Marty's  stealing  into  her  husband's 
lap  as  he  sat  by  the  window  in  his  grandfa 
ther's  old  chair.  The  months  went  by,  and 
winter  came,  and  spring  and  their  baby  came, 
and  then  they  were  happier  than  ever.  Jim, 
for  his  mother's  sake,  carried  him  to  the  old 
bishop  to  be  christened,  and  all  the  neigh 
bors  flocked  in  afterward  and  were  feasted. 
But  there  was  no  mistake  about  it,  Jim 
drank  more  than  was  good  for  him  that  day 
in  his  pride  and  joy,  and  had  an  out  and  out 
spree  while  the  baby's  mother  was  helpless 
in  bed  ;  it  was  the  first  great  worry  and  sor 
row  of  their  married  life.  The  neighbors 
came  and  sat  with  Marty  and  told  her  all 
about  him  ;  and  she  got  well  as  fast  as  she 
could,  and  went  out,  pale  and  weak,  after 


80  JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN. 

him,  and  found  Jim  in  a  horrid  den  and 
brought  him  home.  But  he  was  sorry,  and 
said  it  was  all  the  other  fellows'  fault,  and  a 
fellow  must  have  his  fling.  The  little  woman 
sighed,  and  cried  too  when  there  was  nobody 
to  see  her.  She  had  never  believed,  though 
she  had  had  warnings  enough,  that  there 
was  any  need  of  being  anxious  about  Jim. 
Men  were  different  from  women.  Yet  any 
body  so  strong  and  masterful  ought  surely 
to  master  himself.  But  things  grew  worse 
and  worse;  and  at  last,  when  the  old 
schooner,  with  a  rougher-looking  crew  than 
usual,  came  into  the  harbor,  the  baby's  fa 
ther  drank  with  them  all  one  night,  and 
shipped  with  them  next  morning,  and  sailed 
away,  in  spite  of  tears  and  coaxing,  on  a 
four  months'  voyage.  Marty  had  only  three 
cents  in  her  thrifty  little  purse  at  the  time. 
It  was  a  purse  that  her  mate  at  the  canning 
factory  gave  her  the  Christmas  before  she 
was  married.  All  the  simple,  fearless  old 
life  came  up  before  her  as  she  looked  at  it. 
The  giver  had  cried  when  they  parted,  and 
had  written  once  or  twice,  but  the  last  letter 
had  been  long  unanswered.  Marty  had  lost 
all  her  heart  now  about  writing ;  she  must 
wait  until  Jim  was  at  home  and  steady  again. 


JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN.  81 

Alas,  the  months  went  by,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  that  time  would  never  come. 

Jim  came  home  at  last,  drunk  and  scold 
ing,  and  when  he  went  away  again  with  the 
schooner  it  would  have  been  a  relief  to  be 
rid  of  him,  if  it  were  not  for  the  worry.  He 
did  not  look  so  strong  and  well  as  he  used. 
Under  the  tropic  skies  his  habits  were  mur 
dering  him  slowly.  The  only  comfort  Marty 
could  take  in  him  was  when  he  lay  asleep, 
with  the  black  hair  curling  about  his  smooth 
white  forehead,  and  that  pleasant  boyish 
look  coming  out  on  his  face  instead  of  the 
Spanish  scowl.  The  little  woman  lost  her 
patience  at  last,  and  began  to  wear  a  scowl 
too.  She  was  a  peppery  little  body,  and 
sometimes  Jim  felt  himself  aggrieved  and 
called  her  sharp  names  in  foreign  tongues. 
He  had  a  way  of  bringing  his  cronies  home 
to  supper  when  she  was  tired,  and  ordering 
her  about  contemptuously  before  the  low- 
faced  men.  At  last,  one  night,  they  made 
such  a  racket  that  a  group  of  idle  negroes 
clustered  about  the  house,  laughing  and  jeer 
ing  at  the  company  within.  Marty's  North 
ern  fury  rose  like  a  winter  gale ;  she  was 
vexed  by  the  taunts  of  a  woman  who  lived 
up  the  lane,  who  used  to  come  out  and  sit 


82  JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN. 

on  her  high  blue  balcony  and  spy  all  their 
goings  on,  and  call  the  baby  poor  child  so 
that  his  mother  could  hear.  Jim's  little  wo 
man  drove  the  ribald  company  out  of  doors 
that  night,  and  they  quailed,  drunk  as  they 
were,  before  her  angry  eyes.  They  chased 
the  negroes  in  their  turn,  and  went  off  shout 
ing  and  swearing  down  the  bayside.  They 
tried  to  walk  on  the  sea-wall,  and  one  man 
fell  over  and  was  too  drunk  to  find  his  way 
ashore,  and  lay  down  on  the  wet,  shelly  mud. 
The  tide  came  up  and  covered  Joe  Black, 
and  that  was  the  last  of  him,  which  was  not 
without  its  comfort,  for  Jim  stayed  humbly  at 
home,  and  tried  to  make  his  wife  think  bet 
ter  of  him,  for  days  together.  He  had  won  an 
out  and  out  bad  name  in  the  last  year.  No 
body  would  give  him  a  good  job  ashore  now, 
so  that  he  had  to  go  to  sea.  He  was  apt  to 
lead  his  companions  astray,  and  go  off  011  a 
frolic  with  too  many  followers.  Yet  every 
body  liked  Jim,  and  greeted  him  warmly 
when  he  came  ashore  ;  and  he  could  walk  as 
proudly  as  ever  through  the  town  when  he  had 
had  just  drink  enough  to  make  him  think 
well  of  himself  and  everybody  else.  He 
dodged  round  many  a  corner  to  avoid  meet 
ing  the  bishop,  that  good,  gray-haired  man 
with  the  kind,  straightforward  eyes. 


JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN.  83 

Marty  made  a  good  bit  of  money  in  the 
season.  She  liked  to  work,  and  was  always 
ready  to  do  anything  there  was  to  do,  — 
scrubbing  or  washing  and  ironing  or  sewing, 
—  and  she  came  to  be  known  in  the  town 
for  her  quickness  and  power  of  work. 
While  Jim  was  away  she  always  got  on  well 
and  saved  something;  but  when  he  came 
in  from  his  voyages  things  went  from  bad  to 
worse  ;  and  after  a  while  there  was  news  of 
another  baby,  and  the  first  one  was  cross  and 
masterful ;  and  the  woman  up  the  lane,  in 
her  rickety  blue  balcony,  did  nothing  but 
spy  discomforts  with  her  mocking  eyes. 

Jim  was  more  like  himself  that  last  week 
before  he  went  to  sea  than  for  a  long  time 
before.  He  seemed  sorry  to  go,  and  kept 
astonishingly  sober  all  the  last  few  days,  and 
picked  the  oranges  and  planted  their  little 
vegetable  garden  without  being  asked,  and 
made  Marty  a  new  bench  for  her  tubs  that 
she  had  only  complained  of  needing  once  or 
twice.  He  worked  at  loading  the  schooner 
down  at  the  sawmill,  and  came  home  early 
in  the  evening,  and  Marty  began  to  believe 
she  had  at  last  teased  him  and  shamed  him 
into  being  decent.  She  even  thought  of 
writing  to  her  friend  in  Boothbay  after  two 


84  JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN. 

years'  silence,  she  had  such  new  hopes  about 
being  happy  and  prosperous  again.  She 
talked  to  Jim  about  that  night  when  they 
first  saw  each  other,  and  Jim  was  not  dis 
pleased  when  she  got  the  lucky  shell  out  of  a 
safe  hiding-place  and  showed  him  that  she 
had  kept  it.  They  looked  each  other  in  the 
face  as  they  seldom  did  now,  and  each  knew 
that  the  other  thought  the  shell  had  brought 
little  luck  of  late.  Jim  sat  down  by  the 
window  and  pulled  Marty  into  his  lap,  and 
she  began  to  cry  the  minute  her  head  was  on 
his  shoulder.  Life  had  been  so  hard.  What 
had  come  over  Jim  ? 

"  That  old  bishop  o'  my  mother's,"  faltered 
Jim.  "  He 's  been  givin'  it  to  me ;  he  catched 
me  out  by  the  old  gates,  and  he  says,  '  Jim, 
you  're  goin'  to  break  your  little  woman's 
heart.'  Was  that  so,  Marty  ?  " 

Marty  said  nothing ;  she  only  nodded  her 
head  against  his  shoulder  and  cried  like  a 
child.  She  could  feel  his  warm  shoulder 
through  his  coat,  and  in  a  minute  he  asked 
her  again,  "  Was  that  so,  Marty  ?  "  And 
Marty,  for  answer,  only  cried  a  little  less. 
It  was  night,  and  Jim  was  going  away  in  the 
morning.  The  crickets  were  chirping  in  the 
garden.  Somebody  went  along  the  sea-wall 


JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN.  85 

singing,  and  Jim  and  his  little  woman  sat 
there  by  the  window. 

"  The  devil  gets  me,"  said  Jim  at  last,  in 
a  sober-minded  Northern  way  that  he  had 
sometimes.  "  There 's  an  awful  wild  streak 
in  me.  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  you  cry  like 
mother  always  done.  I  'm  goin'  to  settle 
down  an'  git  a  steady  job  ashore,  after  this 
one  v'y'ge  to  the  islands.  I  'm  goin'  to 
fetch  ye  home  the  handsomest  basketful  of 
shells  that  ever  you  see,  an'  then  I  'm  done 
with  shipping,  I  am  so." 

"  '  T  ain't  me  only  ;  't  is  them  poor  little 
babies,"  said  Marty,  in  a  tired,  hopeful  little 
voice.  She  had  done  crying  now.  She  felt 
somehow  as  if  the  reward  for  all  her  patience 
and  misery  was  coming. 

"  I  would  n't  go  off  an'  leave  ye  now,  as 
things  be  with  ye,"  said  Jim,  "  but  you  see 
we  need  the  money ;  an'  then  I  've  shipped, 
and  the  old  man  's  got  my  word.  I  'm  stout 
to  work  aboard  ship,  an'  he  knows  it,  the 
cap'n  does.  The  old  bishop  he  warned  me 
against  the  cap'n  ;  he  said  if  't  wa'n't  for 
him  I  'd  be  master  o'  a  better  vessel  myself. 
He  works  me  hard  an'  keeps  me  under.  I 
do  believe  the  bishop  's  right  about  him,  and 
I  'd  kept  clear  from  drink  often  if  't  wa'n't 
for  the  old  man." 


86  JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN. 

"  You  've  kep'  you  under,"  said  honest 
Marty.  "Nobody  ain't  master  over  you 
when  it  comes  to  that.  You  9ve  got  to  set 
your  mind  right  against  drink  an'  the  cap'n, 
Jim." 

"  It 's  so  cursed  hot  in  them  islands,"  Jim 
explained.  "You  get  spent,  and  have  to 
work  right  through  everything ;  but  I  give 
you  my  honest  word  I  '11  bring  you  home  my 
pay  this  trip." 

At  which  promise  the  little  woman  gave  a 
pleased  sigh,  and  moved  her  head  as  if  for 
sheer  comfort.  She  tried  to  think  whether 
there  was  anything  else  she  could  have  done 
to  the  poor  clothes  in  his  battered  sea-chest ; 
then  she  fell  asleep.  When  she  waked  in 
the  morning,  Jim  had  laid  her  on  the  bed 
like  a  child,  and  spread  an  old  shawl  over 
her,  and  had  gone.  At  high  tide  in  the 
early  morning  the  schooner  Dawn  of  Day 
had  come  up  from  the  sawmill  wharf  with  a 
tug,  and  sent  a  boat  ashore  for  Jim.  Marty 
had  never  missed  him  as  she  did  that  morn 
ing  ;  she  had  never  felt  so  sure  of  his  loving 
her,  and  had  waked  thinking  to  find  herself 
still  in  his  arms  as  she  had  fallen  asleep. 
There  stood  the  empty  chair  by  the  window  ; 
and  through  the  window,  over  beyond  the 


' 8  LITTLE   WOMAN.  87 

marshes,  she  could  see  the  gray  sails  of  the 
schooner  standing  out  to  sea.  Oh,  Jim ! 
Jim !  and  their  little  child  was  crying  in  the 
crib,  like  a  hungry  bird  in  its  nest  —  the  poor 
little  fellow  !  —  and  calling  his  father  with 
pleading  confidence.  Jim  liked  the  brave 
little  lad.  When  he  was  sober,  he  always 
dressed  up  on  Sundays  and  took  little  Jim 
and  his  mother  for  a  walk.  Sometimes  they 
went  to  the  old  Spanish  bury  ing-ground,  and 
Jim  used  to  put  the  baby  on  his  grand 
father's  great  tombstone,  built  strong  over 
his  grave  like  a  little  house,  and  pick  the 
moss  from  the  epitaph  with  his  great  sea 
jack-knife.  His  mother  had  paid  for  the 
tomb.  She  was  laid  at  one  side  of  it,  but 
Jim  had  never  built  any  tomb  for  her.  He 
meant  to  do  it,  some  time,  and  Marty  always 
picked  some  flowers  and  green  sprigs  and 
laid  them  on  the  grave  with  its  bits  of  crum 
bling  coquina  at  the  head  and  foot. 

In  spite  of  a  pain  at  her  heart,  and  a  fore 
boding  that  Jim  would  never  come  back 
from  his  unwilling  voyage,  the  little  woman 
went  up  the  lane  boldly  that  late  morning 
after  he  sailed ;  she  no  longer  feared  the 
mocking  smile  and  salutation  of  the  neigh 
bor  in  the  balcony.  She  went  to  her  work 


88  JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN. 

cheerfully,  and  sang  over  it  one  of  her  Moody 
and  Sankey  hymns.  She  made  a  pleasure 
for  the  other  women  who  were  washing  too, 
with  her  song  and  her  cheerful  face.  She 
was  such  a  little  woman  that  she  had  a  box  to 
stand  on  while  she  washed,  but  there  never 
was  such  a  brisk  little  creature  for  work. 


III. 

Somehow  everything  prospered  in  the  next 
two  months  until  the  new  baby  came.  Some 
young  women  hired  all  her  spare  rooms,  and 
paid  well  for  their  lodging,  besides  being 
compassionate  and  ready  to  give  a  little  lift 
with  the  housework  when  they  had  the  time. 
Marty  had  never  laid  by  so  much  money 
before,  and  often  spoke  with  pride  of  her 
handsome  husband  to  the  lodgers,  who  had 
never  seen  him:  they  were  girls  from  the 
North,  and  one  of  them  had  once  worked  in 
a  canning  factory.  One  day  Marty  wrote  to 
her  own  old  friend,  and  asked  her  to  come 
down  by  the  steamer  to  Savannah,  and  then 
the  rest  of  the  way  by  rail,  to  make  her  a 
long  visit.  There  was  plenty  of  hotel  work 
in  the  town;  her  lodgers  themselves  got 
good  wages  on  George  Street. 


JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN.  89 

Jim  was  not  skilled  with  his  pen  ;  he  never 
wrote  to  her  when  he  went  away,  but  ever 
since  they  were  married  Marty  always  had 
a  dream  one  of  the  nights  while  he  was  gone, 
in  which  she  saw  the  schooner's  white  sails 
against  a  blue  sky,  and  Jim  himself  walking 
the  deck  to  and  fro,  holding  his  head  high,  as 
he  did  when  he  was  pleased.  She  always  saw 
the  Dawn  of  Day  coming  safe  into  harbor  in 
this  dream ;  but  one  day  she  thought  with  a 
sudden  chill  that  for  this  voyage  the  good 
omen  was  lacking.  Jim  had  taken  the  lucky 
shell  along ;  at  any  rate,  she  could  not  find 
it  after  he  went  away ;  that  was  a  little 
thing,  to  be  sure,  but  it  gave  some  comfort 
until  one  morning,  in  shaking  and  brushing 
the  old  chair  by  the  seaward  window,  out 
dropped  the  smooth  white  shell.  The  luck 
had  stayed  with  her  instead  of  going  with 
poor  Jim,  and  the  time  was  drawing  near 
for  his  return.  The  new  baby  was  a  dear 
little  girl ;  she  knew  that  Jim  wanted  a  girl 
baby,  and  now,  with  the  girl  baby  in  her 
arms,  she  began  her  weary  watch  for  white 
sails  beyond  the  marshes. 

The  winter  days  dawned  with  blue  skies 
and  white  clouds  sailing  over ;  the  town 
began  to  fill  with  strangers.  As  she  got 


90  JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN. 

strong  enough  there  was  plenty  of  work  wait 
ing  for  her.  The  two  babies  were  a  great 
deal  too  large  and  heavy  for  their  little 
mother  to  tend;  they  seemed  to  take  after 
Jim  in  size,  and  to  grow  apace,  and  Marty 
took  the  proud  step  of  hiring  help.  There 
was  a  quiet  little  colored  girl,  an  efficient 
midget  of  a  creature,  who  had  minded  babies 
for  a  white  woman  in  Baya  Lane,  and  was  not 
without  sage  experience.  Marty  had  bought 
a  perambulator  the  year  before  from  a  woman 
at  one  of  the  boarding-houses,  who  did  not 
care  to  carry  it  North.  When  she  left  the 
hired  help  in  charge  that  first  morning,  and 
hurried  away  to  her  own  work,  the  neighbor 
of  the  blue  balcony  stood  in  her  lower  door 
way  and  bade  her  a  polite  good-morning. 
But  Jim's  little  woman's  eyes  glittered  with 
strange  light  as  she  hurried  on  in  the  shadow 
of  the  high  wall,  where  the  orange  boughs 
hung  over,  and  beyond  these,  great  branches 
laden  with  golden  clusters  of  ripening  lo- 
quats.  She  had  not  looked  out  of  the  sea 
ward  window,  as  she  always  liked  to  do 
before  she  left  the  house,  and  she  was  sorry, 
but  there  was  no  time  to  go  back. 

The  old  city  of  St.  Augustine  had  never 
been  more  picturesque  and  full  of  color  than 


JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN.  91 

it  was  that  morning.  Its  narrow  thorough 
fares,  with  the  wide,  overhanging  upper  bal 
conies  that  shaded  them,  were  busy  and  gay. 
Strangers  strolled  along,  stopping  in  groups 
before  the  open  fronts  of  the  fruit  shops, 
or  were  detained  by  eager  venders  of  flowers 
and  orange  -  wood  walking  -  sticks.  There 
were  shining  shop  windows  full  of  photo 
graphs  and  trinkets  of  pink  shell-work  and 
palmetto.  There  were  pink  feather  fans, 
and  birds  in  cages,  and  strange  shapes  and 
colors  of  flowers  and  fruits,  and  stuffed 
alligators.  The  narrow  street  was  full  of 
laughter  and  the  sound  of  voices.  Lumber 
ing  carriages  clattered  along  the  palmetto 
pavement,  and  boys  and  men  rode  by  on 
quick,  wild  little  horses  as  if  for  dear  life, 
and  to  the  frequent  peril  of  persons  on  foot. 
Sometimes  these  small  dun  or  cream-colored 
marsh  tackeys  needed  only  a  cropped  mane 
to  prove  their  suspected  descent  from  the 
little  steeds  of  the  Northmen,  or  their  cousin- 
ship  to  those  of  the  Greek  friezes  ;  they  were, 
indeed,  a  part  of  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
city. 

The  high  gray  towers  of  the  beautiful 
Ponce  de  Leon  Hotel,  with  their  pointed  red 
roofs,  were  crowned  with  ornaments  like  the 


92  JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN. 

berries  of  the  chinaberry-trees,  and  Marty 
looked  up  at  tliem  as  she  walked  along,  and 
at  the  trees  themselves,  hung  with  delicate 
green  leaves  like  a  veil.  Spring  seemed  to 
come  into  the  middle  of  summer  in  that 
country  ;  it  was  the  middle  of  February,  but 
the  season  was  very  early.  There  was  a 
mocking-bird  trying  its  voice  here  and  there 
in  the  gardens.  The  wind-tattered  bananas, 
like  wrecked  windmills,  were  putting  out 
fresh  green  leaves  among  their  ragged  ones. 
There  were  roses  and  oranges  in  bloom,  and 
the  country  carts  were  bringing  in  new 
vegetables  from  beyond  the  old  city  gates  ; 
green  lettuces  and  baskets  of  pease  and 
strawberries,  and  trails  of  golden  jasmine 
were  everywhere  about  the  gray  town.  Down 
at  the  foot  of  the  narrow  lanes  the  bay  looked 
smooth  and  blue,  and  white  sails  flitted  by 
as  you  stood  and  looked.  The  great  bell  of 
the  old  cathedral  had  struck  twelve,  and  as 
Marty  entered  the  plaza,  busy  little  soul  that 
she  was  and  in  a  hurry  as  usual,  she  stopped, 
full  of  a  never  outgrown  Northern  wonder  at 
the  foreign  sights  and  sounds,  —  the  tall  pal- 
mettoes  ;  the  riders  with  their  clinking  spurs  ; 
the  gay  strangers ;  the  three  Sisters  of  St. 
Joseph,  in  their  quaint  garb  of  black  and 


JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN.  93 

white,  who  came  soberly  from  their  parish 
school  close  by.  Jim's  little  woman  looked 
more  childlike  than  ever.  She  always  wore 
a  short  dress  about  her  work,  and  her  short 
crop  of  red  curly  hair  stood  out  about  her 
pale  face  under  the  round  palmetto  hat. 
She  had  been  thinking  of  Jim,  and  of  her 
afternoon's  affairs,  and  of  a  strange  little 
old  negro  woman  who  had  been  looking  out 
of  a  doorway  on  George  Street,  as  she  passed. 
It  seemed  to  Marty  as  if  this  old  withered 
creature  could  see  ghosts  in  the  street  in 
stead  of  the  live  passers-by.  She  never 
looked  at  anybody  who  passed,  but  some 
times  she  stood  there  for  an  hour  looking 
down  the  street  and  mumbling  strange  words 
to  herself.  Jim's  little  woman  was  not 
without  her  own  superstitions ;  she  had  been 
very  miserable  of  late  about  Jim,  and  espe 
cially  since  she  found  his  lucky  shell.  If 
she  could  only  see  him  coming  home  in  her 
dream  ;  she  had  always  dreamed  of  him  be 
fore  ! 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  that  all  the 
little  black  boys  were  running  through  the 
streets  like  ants,  with  single  bananas,  or  limp, 
over-ripe  bunches  of  a  dozen ;  and  she  turned 
quickly,  running  a  few  steps  in  her  eagerness 


94  JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN. 

to  see  the  bay.  Why  had  she  not  looked 
that  way  before?  There  at  the  pier  were 
the  tall  masts  and  the  black  and  green  hull 
of  the  Dawn  of  Day.  She  had  come  in  that 
morning.  Marty  felt  dizzy,  and  had  to  lean 
for  a  minute  against  the  old  cathedral  door 
way.  There  was  a  drone  of  music  inside ; 
she  heard  it  and  lost  it ;  then  it  came  again 
as  her  faintness  passed,  and  she  ran  like  a 
child  down  the  street.  Her  hat  blew  off  and 
she  caught  it  with  one  hand,  but  did  not 
stop  to  put  it  on  again.  The  long  pier  was 
black  with  people  down  at  the  end  next  the 
schooner,  and  they  were  swarming  up  over 
the  side  and  from  the  deck.  There  were 
red  and  white  parasols  from  the  hotel  in  the 
middle  of  the  crowd,  and  a  general  hurry 
and  excitement.  Everybody  but  Marty 
seemed  to  have  known  hours  before  that  the 
schooner  was  in.  Perhaps  she  ought  to  go 
home  first  ;  Jim  might  be  there.  Now  she 
could  see  the  pretty  Jamaica  baskets  heaped 
on  the  top  of  the  cabin,  and  the  shining  colors 
of  shells,  and  green  plumes  of  sprouted  co- 
coanuts  for  planting,  and  the  great  white 
branches  and  heads  of  coral ;  she  could  smell 
the  ripe  fruit  in  the  hold,  and  catch  sight  of 
some  of  the  crew.  At  last  she  was  on  the 


JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN.  95 

gangway,  and  somebody  on  deck  swore  a 
great  oath  under  his  breath.  "  Boys,"  he 
said,  in  a  loud  whisper,  "  here  's  Jim's  little 
woman !  "  and  two  or  three  of  them  dropped 
quickly  between  decks  and  down  into  the 
hold  rather  than  face  her.  When  she  came 
on  board,  there  was  nobody  to  be  seen  but 
the  hard-faced  cabin-boy  whom  she  had  taken 
care  of  in  a  fever  as  they  came  down  from 
Boothbay.  He  had  been  driving  a  brisk 
trade  with  some  ladies  down  in  the  captain's 
cabin. 

"  Where  's  Jim  gone  ?  "  said  Marty,  look 
ing  at  him  fiercely  with  her  suspicious  gray 
eyes. 

"  You  'd  better  go  ask  the  cap'n,"  said  the 
boy.  He  was  two  years  older  than  when  she 
first  knew  him,  but  he  looked  much  the  same, 
only  a  little  harder.  Then  he  remembered 
how  good  Marty  had  been  to  him,  and  that 
the  "  old  man  "  was  in  a  horrid  temper.  He 
took  hold  of  Marty's  thin,  freckled,  hard- 
worked  little  hand,  and  got  her  away  aft  into 
the  shadow  and  behind  the  schooner's  large 
boat.  "Look  here,"  he  faltered,  "I'm 
awful  sorry,  Marty ;  it 's  too  bad,  but  — 
Jim  's  dead." 

Jim's  wife  looked  the  young  fellow  straight 


96  JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN. 

in  the  face,  as  if  she  were  thinking  about 
something  else,  and  had  not  heard  him. 

"  Here,  sit  right  down  on  this  box,"  said 
the  boy.  But  Marty  would  not  sit  down; 
she  had  a  dull  sense  that  she  must  not  stay 
any  longer,  and  that  the  sun  was  hot,  and 
that  she  could  not  walk  home  along  the  sea 
wall  alone. 

"  I  '11  go  home  with  you,"  said  the  boy, 
giving  her  a  little  push  ;  but  she  took  hold 
of  his  hand  and  did  not  move. 

"  Say  it  over  again  what  you  said,"  she 
insisted,  looking  more  and  more  strange ;  her 
short  red  hair  was  blowing  in  the  wind  all 
about  her  face,  and  her  eyes  had  faded  and 
faded  until  they  looked  almost  white. 

"  Jim  's  dead,"  said  the  hard-looking  boy, 
who  thought  he  should  cry  himself,  and  wished 
that  he  were  out  of  such  a  piece  of  business. 
The  people  who  had  come  to  chaffer  for  shells 
began  to  look  at  them  and  to  whisper.  "  He  's 
dead.  He  —  well,  he  was  as  steady  as  a  gig 
'most  all  the  time  we  was  laying  off  o'  Kings 
ton,  and  the  ol'  man  could  n't  master  him  to 
go  an'  drink  by  night ;  and  Jim  he  would  n't 
let  me  go  ashore ;  told  me  he  'd  'bout  kill 
me ;  an'  I  sassed  him  up  an'  down  for  boss- 
in',  and  he  never  hit  me  a  clip  back  nor 


JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN.  97 

nothin' :  he  was  queer  this  voyage.  I 
never  see  him  drunk  but  once,  —  when  we 
first  put  into  Nassau,  —  and  then  he  was 
a-cryiii'  afterwards ;  and  into  Kingston  he 
got  dizzy  turns,  and  was  took  sick  and  laid 
in  his  bunk  while  we  was  unloadin'.  'T  was 
blazin'  hot.  You  never  see  it  so  hot ;  an' 
the  ol'  man  told  how  'twas  his  drinkin'  the 
water  that  give  him  a  fever;  an'  when  he 
went  off  his  head,  the  old  man  got  the  hos- 
pit'l  folks,  an'  they  lugged  him  ashore 
a-ravin' ;  an'  he  was  just  breathin'  his  last 
the  day  we  sailed.  We  see  his  funeral  as 
we  come  out  o'  harbor ;  they  was  goin'  out 
buryin'  of  him  right  off.  I  ain't  seen  it 
myself,  but  Jim  Peet  was  the  last  ashore, 
an'  he  asked  if  't  was  our  Jim,  an'  they  said 
't  was.  They  'd  sent  word  in  the  mornin' 
he  was  'bout  gone,  and  we  might  's  well 
sail  'f  we  was  ready." 

"  Jim  Peet  saw  his  funeril  ?  "  gasped  the 
little  woman.  "  He  felt  sure  't  was  Jim  ?  " 

"  Yes  'm.  You  come  home  'long  o'  me ; 
folks  is  lookin',"  said  the  boy.  "  Come, 
now ;  I  '11  tell  you  some  more  goin'  along." 

Marty  came  with  him  through  the  crowd. 
She  held  her  hat  in  her  hand,  and  she  went 
feeling  her  way,  as  if  she  were  blind,  down 


98  JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN. 

the  gangway  plank.  When  they  reached 
the  shore  and  had  gone  a  short  distance, 
she  turned,  and  told  the  lad  that  he  need 
not  come  any  farther;  if  he  would  bring 
his  clothes  over  before  the  schooner  sailed, 
she  would  mend  them  all  up  nice  for  him. 
Then  she  crept  slowly  along  Bay  Street 
bareheaded;  the  sun  on  the  water  at  the 
right  blinded  her  a  little.  Sometimes  she 
stopped  and  leaned  against  the  fence  or  a 
house  front,  and  so  at  last  got  home.  It 
was  midday,  there  was  not  a  soul  in  the 
house,  and  Jim  was  dead. 

That  night  she  dreamed  of  a  blue  sky, 
and  white  sails,  and  Jim,  with  his  head  up, 
walking  the  deck,  as  he  came  into  harbor. 


IV. 


All  the  townsfolk  who  lived  by  the  water 
side  and  up  and  down  the  lanes,  and  many 
of  the  strangers  at  the  hotels,  heard  of  poor 
Marty's  trouble.  Her  poorest  neighbors 
were  the  first  to  send  a  little  purse  that  they 
had  spared  out  of  their  small  savings  and 
earnings ;  then  by  and  by  some  of  the  hotel 


JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN.  99 

people  and  those  who  were  well  to  do  in  the 
town  made  her  presents  of  money  and  of 
clothes  for  the  children ;  and  even  the  spy 
ing  neighbor  of  the  balcony  brought  a  cake, 
and  some  figs,  all  she  had  on  her  tree,  the 
night  the  news  was  known,  and  put  them 
on  the  table,  and  was  going  away  without  a 
word,  but  Marty  ran  after  her  and  kissed 
her,  for  the  poor  soul's  husband  had  been 
lost  at  sea,  and  so  they  could  weep  together. 
But  after  the  dream  everybody  said  that 
Marty  was  hurt  in  her  mind  by  the  shock. 
She  could  not  cry  for  her  own  loss  when 
she  was  told  over  and  over  about  her  neigh 
bor's  man ;  she  only  said  to  the  people  who 
came  that  they  were  very  kind,  and  she  was 
seeing  trouble,  but  she  was  sure  that  Jim 
would  come  back ;  she  knew  it  by  her 
dream.  They  must  wait  and  see.  She 
could  not  force  them  to  take  their  money 
back,  and  when  she  grew  too  tired  and  un 
strung  to  plead  about  it  any  longer,  she  put 
it  together  in  a  little  box,  and  hid  it  on  a 
high  cupboard  shelf  in  the  chimney.  There 
was  a  wonderful  light  of  hope  in  her  face  in 
these  days  ;  she  kept  the  little  black  girl  to 
tend  the  two  babies,  and  kept  on  with  her 
own  work.  Everybody  said  that  she  was 


100  JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN. 

not  quite  right  in  the  brain.  She  was  often 
pointed  out  to  strangers  in  that  spring  sea 
son,  a  quaint  figure,  so  small,  so  wan,  and 
battling  against  the  world  for  her  secret 
certainty  and  hope. 

Never  a  man's  footstep  came  by  the  house 
at  night  that  she  did  not  rouse  and  start 
with  her  heart  beating  wildly  ;  but  one,  two, 
three  months  went  by,  and  still  she  was 
alone.  Once  she  went  across  the  bay  to  the 
lighthouse  island,  —  babies,  baby-carriage, 
the  small  hired  help,  and  all,  —  and  took 
the  railway  that  leads  down  to  the  south 
beach.  It  was  a  holiday,  and  she  hoped 
that  from  this  southern  point  she  might 
look  far  seaward,  and  catch  sight  of  the 
returning  sails  of  the  old  schooner.  She 
would  not  listen  to  her  own  warnings  that 
Jim  had  plenty  of  ways  of  getting  home  be 
sides  waiting  for  the  Dawn  of  Day.  Those 
who  saw  the  little  company  strike  out  across 
the  sand  to  the  beach  laughed  at  the  sight. 
The  hired  help  pushed  the  empty  perambu 
lator  with  all  the  strength  she  could  muster 
through  the  deep  white  sand,  and  over  the 
huge  green,  serpent-like  vines  that  wound 
among  the  low  dunes.  Marty  carried  the 
baby  and  tugged  the  little  boy  by  the  other 


JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN.  101 

hand,  and  sat  down  at  the  edge  of  the  beach 
all  alone,  while  the  children  played  in  the 
sand  or  were  pushed  to  and  fro.  She 
strained  her  eyes  after  sails,  but  only  a  bark 
was  in  sight  to  the  northward  beyond  the 
bar,  and  a  brigantine  was  beating  south 
ward,  and  far  beyond  that  was  a  schooner 
going  steadily  north,  and  it  was  not  the 
Dawn  of  Day.  All  the  time  Jim's  little 
woman  kept  saying  to  herself :  "I  had  the 
dream;  I  had  the  dream.  Jim  will  come 
home."  But  as  this  miserable  holiday  ended, 
and  they  left  the  great  sand  desert  and  the 
roar  of  the  sea  behind  them,  she  felt  a  new 
dread  make  her  heart  heavier  than  ever  it 
had  been  before ;  perhaps  even  the  dream 
was  mocking  her,  and  he  was  dead  indeed. 

Then  Marty  had  need  of  comfort.  She 
believed  that  as  long  as  she  kept  faith  in 
her  omen  it  would  come  true,  and  yet  her 
faith  slowly  ebbed  in  spite  of  everything. 
It  was  a  cruel  test,  and  she  could  not  work 
as  she  used  ;  she  felt  the  summer  heat  as  she 
never  had  before.  All  her  old  associations 
with  the  cool  Northern  sea-coast  began  to 
call  her  to  come  home.  She  wondered  if  it 
would  not  do  to  go  North  for  a  while  and 
wait  for  Jim  there.  The  old  friend  had 


102  JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN. 

written  that  next  winter  she  would  come 
down  for  a  visit,  and  somehow  Marty  longed 
to  get  home  for  a  while,  and  then  they 
could  come  South  together ;  but  at  last  she 
felt  too  tired  and  weak,  and  gave  up  the 
thought.  If  it  were  not  for  the  children, 
she  could  go  to  Jamaica  and  find  out  all 
about  Jim.  She  had  sent  him  more  than  one 
letter  to  Kingston,  but  no  answer  came. 
Perhaps  she  would  wait  now  until  next 
summer,  and  then  go  North  with  Lizzie. 

In  midsummer  the  streets  are  often  empty 
at  midday,  and  the  old  city  seems  deserted. 
Marty  sometimes  took  the  children  and  sat 
with  them  in  the  plaza,  where  it  was  shady. 
Often  in  the  spring  they  all  wandered  up 
the  white  pavement  of  the  street  by  the 
great  hotel  to  see  the  gay  Spanish  flags,  and 
to  hear  the  band  play  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Ponce  de  Leon ;  but  the  band  did  not  play 
as  it  used.  Marty  used  to  tell  the  eldest 
of  the  children  that  when  his  father  came 
home  he  would  take  him  sailing  in  the  bay, 
and  the  little  fellow  got  a  touching  fashion 
of  asking  every  morning  if  his  father  were 
coming  that  day.  It  was  a  sad  summer,  — 
a  sad  summer.  Marty  knew  that  her  neigh 
bors  thought  her  a  little  crazed  ;  at  last  she 


JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN.  103 

wondered  if  they  were  not  right.  She  began 
to  be  homesick,  and  at  last  she  had  to  give 
up  work  altogether.  She  hated  the  glare  of 
the  sun  and  the  gay  laughter  of  the  black 
people ;  when  she  heard  the  sunset  gun 
from  the  barracks  it  startled  her  terribly. 
She  almost  doubted  sometimes  whether  she 
had  really  dreamed  the  dream. 

One  afternoon  when  the  cars  stopped  at 
the  St.  Augustine  station,  Marty  was  sitting 
in  the  old  chair  by  the  seaward  window, 
looking  out  and  thinking  of  her  sorrow. 
There  was  a  vine  about  the  window  that 
flickered  a  pretty  shadow  over  the  floor 
in  the  morning,  and  it  was  dancing  and 
waving  in  the  light  breeze  that  blows  like  a 
long,  soft  breath,  and  then  stops  at  sundown. 
She  saw  nothing  in  the  bay  but  a  few  small 
pleasure-boats,  and  there  was  nothing  beyond 
the  bar.  News  had  come  some  time  before 
that  the  Dawn  of  Day  had  gone  North 
again  with  yellow  pine,  and  the  few  other 
schooners  that  came  now  and  then  to  the 
port  were  away  on  the  sea,  nobody  knew 
where.  They  came  in  as  if  they  dropped 
out  of  the  sky,  as  far  as  Marty  was  con 
cerned.  She  thought  about  Jim  as  she  sat 
there  ;  how  good  he  was  before  he  sailed 


104  JIM1 8  LITTLE   WOMAN. 

that  last  time,  and  had  really  tried  to  keep 
his  promise  on  board  ship,  according  to  the 
cabin-boy's  story.  Somehow  Jim  was  like 
the  moon  to  her  at  first ;  his  Spanish  blood 
and  the  Church  gave  an  unknown  side  to 
his  character  that  was  always  turned  away ; 
but  another  side  shone  fair  through  his 
Northern  traits,  and  of  late  she  had  under 
stood  him  as  she  never  had  before.  She  used 
to  be  too  smart-spoken  and  too  quick  with 
him  ;  she  saw  it  all  now ;  a  quick  man  ought 
to  have  a  wife  with  head  enough  to  keep  her 
own  temper  for  his  sake.  "I  couldn't  help 
being  born  red-headed,"  thought  Marty  with 
a  wistful  smile,  and  then  she  was  dreaming 
and  dozing,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

The  train  had  stopped  in  the  station,  and 
among  the  strangers  who  got  out  was  a 
very  dark  young  man,  with  broad  shoulders , 
and  of  uncommon  height.  He  was  smartly 
dressed  in  a  sort  of  uniform,  and  looked  about 
him  with  a  familiar  smile  as  he  strolled  among 
the  idlers  on  the  platform.  Suddenly  some 
body  caught  him  by  the  hand,  with  a  shout, 
and  there  was  an  eager  crowd  about  him  in 
a  minute.  "  Jim !  Here  's  dead  Jim  !  "  cried 
some  one,  with  a  shrill  laugh,  and  there  was 
a  great  excitement. 


LITTLE    WOMAN.  105 

"  No,"  said  Jim,  "  I  ain't  dead.  What 's 
the  matter  with  you  all  ?  I  've  been  up  North 
with  the  best  yacht  you  ever  see ;  first  we 
went  cruisin'  in  the  Gulf  an'  over  to  Marti 
nique.  Why,  my  wife  know'd  I  was  goin'. 
I  had  a  fellow  write  her  from  Kingston,  an' 
not  to  expect  me  till  I  come.  I  give  him  a 
quarter  to  do  it." 

"  She  thinks  you  're  dead.  No  ;  other  folks 
says  so,  an'  she  won't.  Word  come  by  the 
schooner  that  you  was  dead  in  hospit'l,  of  a 
Jamaica  fever,"  somebody  explained  in  the 
racket  and  chatter. 

"  They  always  was  a  pack  o'  fools  on  that 
leaky  old  Dawn  o'  Day,"  said  Jim  contemp 
tuously,  looking  down  the  steep,  well-clothed 
precipice  of  himself  to  the  platform.  "  I 
don't  sail  with  those  kind  o'  horse-marines 
any  more." 

Then  he  thought  of  Marty  with  sudden  in 
tensity.  "  She  never  had  got  his  letter !  " 
He  shouldered  his  great  valise  and  strode 
away ;  there  was  something  queer  about  his 
behavior ;  nobody  could  keep  up  with  his 
long  steps  and  his  quick  runs,  and  away  he 
went  toward  home. 

Jim's  steps  grew  softer  and  slower  as  he 
went  down  the  narrow  lane ;  he  saw  the 


106  JIM'S  LITTLE    WOMAN. 

little  house,  and  its  door  wide  open.  The 
woman  in  the  blue  balcony  saw  him,  and 
gave  a  little  scream,  as  if  he  were  a  ghost. 
The  minute  his  foot  touched  the  deep-worn 
coquina  step,  Marty  in  her  sleep  heard  it 
and  opened  her  eyes.  She  had  dreamed 
again  at  last  of  the  blue  sky  and  white  sails  ; 
she  opened  her  eyes  to  see  him  standing 
there,  with  his  head  up,  in  the  door.  Jim  not 
dead  !  not  dead  !  but  Jim  looking  sober,  and 
dressed  like  a  gentleman,  come  home  at  last ! 
That  evening  they  walked  up  Bay  Street 
to  King  Street,  and  round  the  plaza,  and 
home  again  through  George  Street,  mak 
ing  a  royal  progress,  and  being  stopped  by 
everybody.  They  told  the  story  over  and 
over  of  its  having  been  another  sailor  from 
a  schooner,  poor  fellow !  who  had  died  in 
Kingston  that  day,  alone  in  hospital.  Jim 
himself  had  gone  down  to  the  gates  of  death 
and  turned  back.  There  was  a  yacht  in  har 
bor  that  had  lost  a  hand,  and  the  owner  saw 
handsome  Jim  on  the  pier,  looking  pale  and 
unfriended,  and  took  a  liking  to  him,  and 
found  how  well  he  knew  the  Gulf  and  the 
islands,  so  they  struck  a  bargain  at  once. 
They  had  cruised  far  south  and  then  north 
again,  and  Jim  only  had  leave  to  come  home 


JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN.  107 

for  a  few  days  to  bring  away  his  little  wo 
man  and  the  children,  because  he  was  to 
keep  with  the  yacht,  and  spend  the  summer 
cruising  in  Northern  waters.  Marty  had 
always  been  wishing  to  make  a  visit  up  in 
Maine,  where  she  came  from.  Jim  fingered 
his  bright  buttons  and  held  his  head  higher 
than  ever,  as  if  he  had  been  told  that  she 
felt  proud  to  show  him  to  her  friends.  He 
looked  down  at  little  Marty  affectionately ; 
it  was  very  queer  about  that  dream  and 
other  people's  saying  he  was  dead.  He 
must  buy  her  a  famous  new  rig  before  they 
started  to  go  North ;  she  looked  worn  out 
and  shabby.  It  seemed  all  a  miracle  to 
Marty  ;  but  her  dream  was  her  dream,  and 
she  felt  as  tall  as  Jim  himself  as  she  remem 
bered  it.  As  they  went  home  at  sunset,  they 
met  the  bishop,  who  stopped  before  them 
and  looked  down  at  the  little  woman,  and 
then  up  at  Jim. 

"  So  you  're  doing  well  now,  my  boy  ?  " 
he  said  good  htunoredly,  to  the  great,  smil 
ing  fellow.  "  Ah,  Jim,  many  's  the  prayer 
your  pious  mother  said  for  you,  and  I 
myself  not  a  few.  Come  to  Mass  and  be  a 
Christian  man  for  the  sake  of  her.  God 
bless  you,  my  children !  "  and  the  good 


108  JIM'S  LITTLE   WOMAN. 

man  went  his  wise  and  kindly  way,  not 
knowing  all  their  story  either,  but  knowing 
well  and  compassionately  the  sorrows  and 
temptations  of  poor  humanity. 

It  seemed  to  Marty  as  if  she  had  had 
time  to  grow  old  since  the  night  Jim  went 
away  and  left  her  sleeping,  but  the  long 
misery  was  quickly  fading  out  of  her  mind, 
now  that  he  was  safe  at  home  again.  In  a 
few  days  more,  the  old  coquina  house  was 
carefully  shut  and  locked  for  the  summer, 
and  they  gave  the  key  to  the  woman  of  the 
blue  balcony.  The  morning  that  they 
started  northward,  Marty  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  Dawn  of  Day  coming  in  through  the 
mist  over  the  harbor  bar.  She  wisely  said 
nothing  to  Jim  ;  she  thought  with  apprehen 
sion  of  the  captain's  usual  revelry  the  night 
he  came  into  port.  She  took  a  last  look  at 
the  tall  light-house,  and  remembered  how  it 
had  companioned  her  with  its  clear  ray 
through  many  a  dark  and  anxious  night. 
Then  she  thought  joyfully  how  soon  she 
should  see  the  far-away  spark  on  Monhegan, 
and  the  bright  light  of  Seguin,  and  pres 
ently  the  towers  of  St.  Augustine  were  left 
out  of  sight  behind  the  level  country  and 
the  Southern  pines. 


THE  FAILUKE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

MR.  DAVID  BERRY  kept  his  shop  in  a 
small  wooden  building  in  his  own  yard,  and 
worked  steadily  there  a  great  many  years, 
being  employed  by  a  large  manufacturing 
company  in  Lynn  at  soling  and  heeling 
men's  boots.  There  were  many  such  small 
shoe  shops  as  his  scattered  among  the  vil 
lages  and  along  the  country  roads.  Most  of 
the  farmers  knew  something  of  the  shoe- 
making  trade,  and  they  and  their  sons 
worked  in  their  warm  little  shops  in  winter 
when  they  had  nothing  else  to  do,  and  so 
added  a  good  deal  of  ready  money  to  their 
narrow  incomes.  The  great  Lynn  teams, 
piled  high  with  clean  wooden  shoe  boxes, 
came  and  went  along  the  highways  at  regu 
lar  times,  to  deliver  and  collect  the  work. 
Many  of  the  women  bound  shoes,  and 
sometimes  in  pleasant  weather  half  a  dozen 
friends  came  together  with  their  bundles, 
and  had  a  bit  of  friendly  gossip  while  they 
stitched.  The  little  shops  were  only  large 


110   THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

enough  for  the  shoe  benches,  with  shiny 
leather  seats  and  trays  of  small  tools, 
sprinkled  with  steel  and  wooden  shoe  pegs 
and  snarled  with  waxed  ends ;  for  their 
whetstones  and  lapstones  and  lasts,  and  the 
rusty,  raging  little  stoves,  with  a  broken 
chair  or  two,  where  idlers  or  customers 
could  make  themselves  permanently  com 
fortable.  No  woman's  broom  or  duster  had 
any  right  to  invade  the  pungent,  leathery, 
dusty,  pasty  abodes  of  shoemaking ;  these 
belonged  wholly  to  men,  and  had  a  rudeness 
akin  to  savagery,  together  with  a  delightful, 
definite  sort  of  hospitality  as  warm  as  the 
atmosphere  itself.  If  there  were  not  a  life- 
sustaining  broken  pane  of  glass  somewhere, 
the  door  had  to  be  left  ajar.  There  were 
apt  to  be  apples  on  the  high  window  ledges, 
and  any  one  might  choose  the  best  and  eat  it, 
and  throw  the  core  down  among  the  chips 
of  leather.  The  shoemaker  usually  had  a 
dog,  which  wagged  an  impartial  tail  at  each 
new-comer ;  for  the  shoemaker  always  sat 
in  the  same  place,  and  society  came  and 
found  him  there,  and  told  news  and  heard 
it,  and  went  away  again.  There  were  some 
men  who  passed  their  time  as  guests  in 
shoemakers'  shops,  especially  in  winter ; 


THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY.     Ill 

their  wives  were  fortunate  in  having  other 
sources  of  income,  and  merely  looked  out 
for  their  rights  in  the  matter  of  neighbor 
hood  news.  These  shoemakers'  guests  were 
a  distinct  and  recognized  class.  There 
never  were  many  of  them,  and  they  each 
had  a  sufficient  excuse  for  idleness,  either 
in  their  diligent  wives,  or  some  slight  physi 
cal  hindrance  to  active  labor. 

One  cannot  follow  a  farmer  as  he  ploughs 
his  furrows  in  a  clayey  field  and  expect 
the  time  to  be  given  to  steady  conversation, 
but  a  shoemaker  sits  all  day  pounding,  peg 
ging,  and  silently  shaping  leather  with  his 
thin,  sharp  knife,  at  the  receipt  of  custom 
and  news.  He  likes  to  have  his  time  be 
guiled  with  idle  talk ;  he  grows  wise  in 
many  ways,  and  deeply  reflective  as  he 
grows  old.  The  humble  hero  of  this  brief 
tale,  Mr.  David  Berry,  was  one  of  the 
pleasantest  and  wisest  and  least  prejudiced 
of  shoemakers.  You  could  not  spend  five 
minutes'  pegging  time  with  him  and  miss 
hearing  some  ever-to-be-remembered  piece 
of  rural  wisdom,  some  light  coin  of  country 
speech,  bearing  the  stamp  of  that  mint  where 
wit  holds  the  hammer. 

He   was    always    an  old-looking  man  for 


112      THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

his  years,  and  as  wise  of  countenance  as 
a  Greek  philosopher.  In  the  days  when 
parishioners  listened  critically  to  sermons, 
and  on  Mondays  and  Tuesdays  argued 
excitedly  for  and  against  the  minister's 
opinions,  Mr.  David  Berry,  though  never 
a  fierce  partisan,  could  always  keep  the 
points  and  heads  of  the  discourses  very 
clear  in  his  mind.  He  was  much  respected 
among  the  old  residents  of  the  town,  and 
always  made  Judge  Hutton's  and  General 
Barstow's  best  boots,  and  patiently  repaired 
the  foot-gear  of  half  the  men  and  women  of 
his  neighborhood.  Everything  prospered 
with  him  in  early  life ;  his  wife  was  busy 
and  cheerful,  and  helped  him  to  earn, 
though  nobody  could  help  him  to  save. 
His  steady  business  brought  in  enough  — 
Lynn  work  and  custom  work  together  —  to 
pay  for  their  house  and  a  bit  of  land  in 
course  of  time,  but  David  Berry  was  one 
who  liked  to  give  for  giving's  sake ;  he 
believed  with  all  his  heart  in  foreign  mis 
sions  ;  he  considered  the  poor,  and  was  in 
every  way  a  generous  man.  People  did  not 
notice  this  trait  at  first,  because  he  never  had 
large  sums  to  give,  and  one  never  looked 
for  his  cramped  handwriting  at  the  head  of 


THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY.     113 

a  subscription  paper,  but  you  might  always 
find  it  before  you  came  to  the  end. 

Everything  prospered  until  he  and  his 
wife  were  far  past  middle  life ;  then  they 
suddenly  became  aware  that  the  growth  of 
the  town  was  leaving  them  at  one  side.  The 
tide  of  business  had  swept  away  from  the 
old  shoe  shop.  Sometimes  Mr.  Berry  did 
not  have  a  customer  all  day,  and  his  wife 
came  out  with  her  sewing  and  sat  on  the 
doorstep  to  keep  him  company.  The  idlers 
had  disappeared  :  some  had  gone  to  another 
world,  and  the  rest  evidently  had  followed 
the  track  of  business  ;  they  were  off  at  the 
square  looking  at  men  who  drove  new  horses 
by,  and  tried  to  look  unconscious ;  at  mer 
cantile  strangers  who  came  from  Boston; 
at  the  great  brick  walls  of  the  new  mills 
which  were  going  to  bring  so  much  money 
to  the  town.  Professional  idlers  have  no 
spirit  of  loyalty,  they  find  occupation  in 
the  occupation  of  others,  and  they  are  fond 
of  novelty. 

Business  had  gone  to  another  part  of  the 
town,  and  it  was  the  plainest  sort  of  good 
sense  to  follow  it.  One  morning,  after 
much  trotting  back  and  forward,  an  express 
wagon  was  backed  up  to  the  door  of  the  lit- 


114      THE  FAILURE   OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

tie  shoe  shop  in  David  Berry's  yard,  and 
loaded  with  the  old  shoe  bench  and  the 
rusty  stove,  and  all  the  sole-leather  and  old 
shoes  and  boots,  and  the  idlers'  chairs,  and 
a  great  quantity  of  queer-shaped  wooden 
lasts,  and  these  were  soon  bestowed,  looking 
meagre  enough,  in  a  narrow  brick  store 
down  town.  The  rent  had  been  a  great 
lion  in  the  way  to  a  man  who  had  never 
paid  any  rent ;  but  Mrs.  Berry  was  sanguine, 
and  had  no  sentimental  ties  to  the  old  shop, 
which  she  had  always  complained  of  as  a 
dirty  place  and  a  temptation  to  the  loafers 
of  that  neighborhood.  Before  long  she  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  a  good  offer  for  the  empty 
little  building  from  a  neighbor  who  was  en 
larging  his  hen  house,  and  could  not  under 
stand  why  her  husband  was  slow  to  seize  upon 
such  a  good  handful  of  ready  money,  and 
even  after  he  had  taken  it,  would  not  stay 
at  home  and  lend  a  hand  at  the  moving. 
Mrs.  Berry  declared  that  the  yard  looked  a 
great  deal  better  without  the  old  shoe  shop. 
She  could  sit  at  her  favorite  window  in  the 
kitchen  now,  where  the  light  was  best,  and 
look  far  down  the  street,  as  she  never  could 
before,  to  see  the  passing. 

But  David  Berry  felt  old  and  bewildered 


THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY.     115 

in  his  new  quarters.  The  light  was  not 
nearly  so  good,  and  his  tools  were  scattered, 
and  he  had  to  get  up  and  cross  the  room 
half  a  dozen  times  in  an  hour,  when  formerly 
he  had  only  to  reach  to  the  shelf  above  his 
head  or  across  to  the  cutting  board.  He 
put  up  some  signs  in  his  window,  made  for 
him  long  ago  out  of  friendship  by  one  of 
the  idlers,  whose  only  gift  was  one  for  orna 
mental  penmanship.  "  Boots  and  Shoes  Re 
paired  While  You  Wait"  was  the  most 
prominent  of  these,  and  brought  the  indus 
trious  little  man  a  good  many  hurried  ten- 
cent  jobs  of  pegging  and  heeling.  Some  of 
his  old  friends  followed  him ;  those  who 
could  afford  to  have  their  boots  made  still 
did  so,  for  David  Berry  had  won  consider 
able  renown  for  making  comfortable  shoes. 
But  almost  every  one  in  the  fast-growing, 
extravagant  little  town  thought  it  better 
to  spend  two  dollars  three  times  in  the  six 
months  than  five  dollars  once,  and ,  ready- 
made  boots  and  shoes  were  coming  more  and 
more  into  favor.  Still  there  was  work 
enough  to  do,  though  life  was  not  half  so 
friendly  and  pleasant  as  it  used  to  be ;  and 
it  always  seemed  strange  to  the  little  round- 
shouldered  old  man  to  take  his  long  walk 


116      THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

down  the  street  after  breakfast,  and  put  the 
new  key  into  the  lock  of  an  unfamiliar  door. 
Mrs.  Berry  thought  that  her  husband  had 
lacked  exercise,  and  that  his  walk  did  him 
good.  She  promoted  him  to  a  higher  station 
of  respectability  in  her  own  mind  because  he 
had  a  store  down  town,  even  though  that 
store  was  a  queer  little  three-cornered  place 
tucked  in  at  the  head  of  the  street  between 
two  large  blocks. 

There  was  only  a  north  light  in  the  new 
shop,  and  this  seemed  strange  to  a  man  who 
had  been  browned  like  a  piece  of  the  leather 
he  worked  upon  because,  small  as  the  old 
shoe  shop  was,  there  were  five  windows  in  it, 
facing  east  and  west  and  north,  besides  the 
upper  half  of  the  door,  which  was  glazed, 
and  faced  to  the  southward.  In  dark  weather, 
as  the  autumn  came  on,  he  had  to  light  up 
early,  and  the  care  of  the  three  lamps  which 
were  necessary  for  the  new  place  of  business 
seemed  very  troublesome.  But  he  pegged 
and  pounded  away  bravely.  The  old  bench 
and  the  lapstone  and  all  the  tools  were 
familiar,  if  the  surroundings  were  not.  He 
often  said  to  himself  that  he  should  have 
felt  like  a  king  when  he  was  a  young  journey 
man  to  have  had  such  a  good  location  and 


THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY.     117 

outlook  for  business  as  this.  There  was  an 
opportunity,  besides,  for  making  new  friends. 
An  old  sailor  with  a  wooden  leg  came  in  one 
morning  to  have  his  one  boot  patched,  and 
the  two  men  instantly  recognized  a  capacity 
for  comfortable  companionship  in  one  an 
other.  David  Berry  had  made  one  wretched 
fishing  voyage  to  the  Banks  before  he  finally 
settled  upon  his  trade,  and  this  made  him  a 
more  intelligent  listener  to  the  life  history  of 
a  mariner  than  was  commonly  to  be  found. 

So  the  old  sailor  was  unmolested  in  the 
best  seat  by  the  stove,  by  the  time  winter 
had  set  in.  There  was  a  poor  little  child, 
too,  who  came  almost  every  day,  and  sat  by 
the  work-bench  and  watched  the  sharp  knife 
and  the  round-headed  hammer,  the  waxed 
ends  and  the  lapstone,  do  their  work.  Mr. 
Berry  had  seen  the  little  thing  as  he  went  to 
his  work  in  the  morning,  and  it  being  natural 
to  him  to  inspect  people's  shoes  before  he 
glanced  at  their  faces,  he  had  been  compas 
sionate  toward  a  worn-out  sole,  and  offered 
his  services  at  mending  it.  The  child  put 
her  little  hand  into  his,  and  they  walked 
along  together  to  the  shop.  She  was  a  poor 
little  body,  and  grateful  for  the  luxurious 
warmth  and  for  an  apple,  but  the  mended 


118   THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

shoe  she  took  quite  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Ever  since,  she  had  come  every  day  for  a 
while,  —  to  sit  beside  the  bench,  to  run  er 
rands,  to  love  the  kind  old  man  and  look  at 
him  eagerly,  —  but  into  what  crevice  of  the 
town  she  disappeared  when  she  went  out  of 
the  shop  door,  he  never  knew. 

It  came  into  Mr.  David  Berry's  thoughts 
sometimes  in  the  old  shop  how  he  had  pegged 
away  on  his  bench  year  after  year,  and  how 
many  men  and  women  had  kept  him  com 
pany  for  a  time  and  then  disappeared. 
There  had  been  six  ministers  of  the  parish 
to  which  he  and  his  wife  belonged,  and  they 
had  all  gone  away  or  died.  It  sometimes 
seemed  as  if  he  were  going  to  peg  away  for 
ever  just  the  same,  and  the  rest  of  the  world 
change  and  change  ;  but  in  these  later  days 
the  world  outside  seemed  to  fare  on  its  pros 
perous  and  unhindered  way,  while  he  was 
battling  against  change  himself.  But  for 
all  that,  he  liked  many  things  in  the  new 
life.  He  was  doing  more  business,  if  only 
the  rent  were  not  so  high ;  and  Mrs.  Berry 
was  completely  satisfied  with  him,  which  was 
most  delightful  of  all.  She  could  not  have 
treated  him  better  if  he  had  owned  the 
whole  new  shoe  factory  that  was  just  being 


THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY.     119 

fitted  with  its  machinery  and  office  furniture. 
Some  misguided  persons  went  so  far  as  to 
suggest  that  David  should  apply  for  work 
there,  but  his  wife  was  scornful  in  the  ex 
treme,  and  so,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  David 
himself.  Since  his  days  as  apprentice,  and 
a  few  months  spent  as  a  journeyman  in  see 
ing  the  shoemaking  world,  he  had  been  his 
own  man. 

Some  time  went  by,  and  business  seemed 
just  as  good,  and  even  the  continuous  stream 
of  passers-by  in  the  street  made  the  old 
shoemaker  feel  as  if  he  could  not  work  fast 
enough  to  keep  up  with  the  times.  There 
was  no  question  among  Mr.  David  Berry's 
friends  about  his  unflagging  prosperity. 
His  friend  the  doctor,  who  said  always  and 
everywhere  when  he  found  opportunity  that 
no  shoemaker  in  town  understood  the  anat 
omy  of  the  human  foot  as  Mr.  Berry  did, 
looked  at  him  sharply  once  or  twice,  and 
asked  if  he  got  light  enough,  and  if  he  had 
a  good  appetite  nowadays,  but  there  never 
was  anything  but  an  unaffectedly  cheerful 
answer.  The  change  had  been  good  on  the 
whole,  and  the  rent  was  always  paid  on  the 
day  it  was  due,  though  Mrs.  Berry  forgot 
about  it  every  quarter,  and  could  not  ima- 


120      THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

gine  what  her  man  did  with  his  money. 
Think  of  the  work  he  had  now !  As  much 
again  as  came  to  him  in  his  shop  in  the 
yard.  She  asked  him  sometimes  if  he  spent 
it  for  nuts  and  candy,  remembering  that  in 
his  early  days  he  had  yielded  to  such  tempta 
tions,  but  David  colored,  and  shook  his  head 
soberly.  He  did  buy  an  apple  or  an  orange 
for  the  little  girl  sometimes,  but  he  could 
not  confess  it  even  to  his  wife.  Mrs.  Berry 
sometimes  looked  into  the  place  of  business, 
and  once  or  twice  had  found  the  child  there, 
and  asked  all  sorts  of  questions,  but  the  old 
man  hastened  to  suggest  another  subject, 
saying  that  she  did  no  mischief,  and  kept 
some  others  out  of  that  chair  who  would 
be  in  it  and  bothering  him  if  she  were  not. 
When  the  little  clerk's  mysterious  grand 
mother  kept  her  at  home,  Mr.  Berry  felt 
very  lonely.  She  was  an  odd,  silent  child ; 
but  they  felt  the  warmth  of  each  other's 
affection  without  a  word  being  said,  and 
were  contented  in  their  opportunity  of  being 
together.  Mr.  Berry  sometimes  believed 
that  if  the  grandmother  should  die,  from 
whom  this  stray  little  person  ran  away  daily, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  he  should  try  to  per 
suade  his  wife  to  give  the  child  a  home. 


THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY.      121 

Before  long,  Mrs.  Berry  would  need  some 
one  to  help  in  the  house  ;  but  all  this  got  no 
further  than  being  a  pleasant  holiday  flight 
of  his  imagination. 

In  the  second  year  of  Mr.  David  Berry's 
occupation  of  the  down-town  place  of  busi 
ness  he  yielded  to  bad  advice,  and  enlarged 
his  business  unguardedly.  Sam  Wescott, 
the  man  who  had  bought  the  old  shoe  shop, 
came  in  one  night  to  get  a  pair  of  new  boots, 
and  after  beating  the  price  down  unmerci 
fully,  and  robbing  honest  David  of  nearly 
all  his  small  profits,  under  pretense  of  hard 
times,  and  being  a  neighbor  who  had  shown 
past  favors  about  buying  the  building,  he 
sat  down  for  a  friendly  talk,  saying  that  it 
was  almost  time  for  closing  up,  and  then  they 
could  walk  home  together.  David  was  glad 
to  have  a  companion  in  his  evening's  journey 
of  three  quarters  of  a  mile.  He  used  to  go 
home  to  dinner  at  first,  but  of  late  it  seemed 
to  keep  him  out  of  his  shop  just  when  the 
mill  people  were  likely  to  wish  to  come  in. 
The  little  girl  was  apt  to  come  in  at  noon 
and  share  his  feast. 

"  You  've  got  more  room  than  you  want 
here,"  said  the  unprofitable  customer,  look 
ing  about  with  a  lordly  air.  "  Why  don't 


122      THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

you  put  in  some  new  stock  ?  Why  don't  you 
keep  ready-made  boots  ?  " 

"  I  can't  recommend  them  to  customers," 
said  the  shoemaker,  frowning. 

"You  needn't  recommend  them;  they  '11 
be  snapped  up  quick  enough  if  you  keep  the 
prices  low.  Plenty  of  ways  of  getting  round 
recommendations." 

David  Berry  said  nothing. 

"  And  you  are  doing  well  as  you  are,  so 
what  you  could  sell  extra  would  be  clear  gain, 
and  draw  in  a  sight  o'  folks  who  don't  come 
now.  I  hear  they  sell  second-choice  shoes 
at  the  factory  for  next  to  nothing.  My 
woman  gets  hers  that  way.  You  see,  the 
thread  '11  break,  or  the  needle,  and  make  a 
scratch  on  the  leather,  or  there  '11  be  some 
little  defect,  and  the  shoe 's  just  as  good  to 
wear,  but  't  won't  do  to  put  in  the  shipping 
cases." 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  palm  off  no  such  stuff  on 
folks  that  respect  either  me  or  themselves," 
said  Mr.  David  Berry,  reddening. 

"  You  can  tell  folks  just  what  they  be," 
urged  the  poultry  merchant.  "  Some  likes 
that  kind  the  best.  I  can  lend  ye  something 
to  start  on ;  just  as  soon  lend  ye  as  not." 

The  shoemaker  rose  and  put  by  his  tools 


THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY.      123 

and  his  apron,  but  made  no  answer.  The  lit 
tle  girl,  who  was  lingering  late,  waited  until 
he  had  put  on  his  coat  and  hat  and  locked  the 
door,  then  put  her  hand  into  his  and  trotted 
at  his  side.  Sam  Wescott  was  amused  at  the 
sight,  but  after  they  passed  two  or  three 
squares,  the  child  slipped  away  silently  down 
the  side  street. 

"  I  'd  think  the  matter  over  about  extend 
ing  your  business,"  he  suggested  again  ;  and 
this  time  David  Berry  said  gravely  that  he 
would  think  of  it,  and  ask  Mrs.  Berry  ;  then 
he  spoke  decidedly  about  other  matters,  but 
would  hear  110  more  of  business  until  they 
parted. 

He  went  in  at  the  side  door  of  his  little 
house,  and  hung  up  his  coat  and  hat  in  the 
narrow  entry-way  before  he  opened  the  door 
of  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Berry  was  putting  some 
old-fashioned  shoe  lasts  into  the  stove.  She 
was  dressed  all  in  her  best,  and  there  was  a 
look  of  festivity;  it  was  evident  that  she 
had  company  to  tea. 

"  Step  into  the  bedroom  quick  as  you  can, 
David,  an'  put  on  a  clean  shirt  and  your  best 
coat.  Mis'  Lester  is  here  an'  her  son's  wife. 
They  come  over  from  West  Farms  in  the 
stage,  shopping,  and  I  over-persuaded  'em  to 


124      THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

spend  the  night.  I  just  run  over  and  asked  the 
Wescotts  to  come  too.  I  've  been  wantin' 
to  invite  them  this  great  while,  you  know ; 
they  're  some  connection  o'  the  Lesters.  I 
can't  make  this  fire  burn,  no  matter  what 
I  do.  Them  lasts  is  got  too  old-fashioned 
even  to  burn." 

"  There,  hold !  hold  !  "  exclaimed  David, 
rescuing  a  treasure  from  the  very  jaws  of  the 
devouring  stove.  "  That  one  ain't  to  be  burnt ; 
it 's  a  very  particular  last  with  me.  I  won't 
have  ye  take  any  o'  those  in  the  barrel." 

u  They  're  all  one  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Berry, 
laughing.  "  I  wish  barrel  and  all  was  out 
o'  my  way.  Come,  go  and  dress  up,  David, 
and  have  some  ambition  besides  hoardin' 
them  old  lasts  !  "  She  was  very  busy,  but 
she  turned  round  to  look  at  him.  "  You  feel 
well,  don't  you  ?  "  she  asked  anxiously,  dis 
turbed  by  an  un  explainable  change  in  his 
looks.  "  Now  you  're  doin'  so  well,  you 
might  shut  up  shop  for  a  week,  and  go  off 
and  have  a  good  visit  somewhere.  I  'd  like  a 
change,"  she  pleaded.  "  There,  David  Berry, 
you  don't  know  how  glad  I  be  to  have 
you  out  o'  that  little  sixpenny  shoe  shop.  I 
feel  so  free  to  have  company  when  I  want  it, 
and  not  to  stop  and  count  every  cent.  I  'm 


THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY.     125 

going  to  make  some  o'  my  best  tea-cakes,  the 
kind  that  takes  six  eggs." 

David  stood,  with  the  last  in  his  hand, 
looking  at  her  and  faintly  smiling  approval. 
He  was  childishly  delighted  when  she  was 
pleased  with  herself  and  him,  as  she  appeared 
to  be  to-night.  Then  he  turned  and  went 
into  the  bedroom,  and  found  his  clean  shirt 
and  satin  stock  and  Sunday  coat  spread  out 
for  him  on  the  bed. 

After  tea  was  over,  and  the  women  had 
settled  down  to  steady  conversation,  Sam 
Wescott  returned  to  the  subject  of  the  ex 
tension  of  David  Berry's  capital,  and  David 
said  that  he  had  been  thinking  it  over,  and 
believed  it  would  be  110  harm  to  try  and 
work  oif  a  few  dozen  pairs  of  the  factory 
shoes.  He  had  put  by  something  for  a  rainy 
day,  though  his  rent  hampered  him  all  the 
time,  and  his  wood  bill  had  been  double 
what  he  expected.  There  was  no  place  to 
store  firewood  at  the  little  shop,  and  he  had 
to  buy  a  foot  at  a  time  at  an  increased  price. 
Before  the  tea  party  broke  up,  he  had  bor 
rowed  fifty  dollars  from  Sam  Wescott.  There 
was  nothing  said  about  the  interest  not  being 
put  so  high  because  they  were  neighbors. 
David  Berry  felt  uneasy  about  this  departure 


126      THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

from  his  rule  of  never  borrowing  money,  but 
he  did  n't  like  to  touch  what  they  had  in  the 
bank.  It  was  little  enough,  and  yet  his  wife 
really  wanted  to  feel  better  off,  now  that  she 
was  in  her  prime.  For  himself,  he  was  older, 
and  would  be  contented  to  do  without  tea 
parties  and  the  tea-cakes  that  took  six  eggs. 
But  for  several  days  Mrs.  Berry  kept  say- 

ing>  ~ 

"What  makes  you  so  dumb,  David?" 
And  David  would  look  at  her  with  his  slow 
smile,  and  make  no  excuse  for  himself. 

A  year  went  slowly  by  in  these  plain  lives, 
and  brought  no  change  except  that  Mrs. 
Berry  had  a  long  siege  of  illness,  and  a  wo 
man  had  to  be  hired  to  take  care  of  her,  and 
the  doctor's  considerate  bill  was  paid,  and 
David  Berry,  that  prudent,  saving  man,  who 
had  feared  debt  as  if  it  were  a  tiger,  found 
himself  likely  to  be  behindhand  with  his  rent, 
and  obliged  for  the  first  time  to  tell  the 
parish  collector  that  ,he  could  not  pay  the 
quarter's  pew  rent  or  his  punctual  missionary 
subscription  until  next  month.  The  situa 
tion  was  not  so  terrible,  after  all,  as  he 
might  have  expected.  His  wife  was  slowly 
recovering  her  strength,  and  he  had  plenty 
of  work  to  do.  The  little  three-cornered 


THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY.     127 

shop  was  reopened,  and  he  set  himself  to 
work  again,  and  felt  as  prosperous  as  usual 
as  soon  as  he  felt  the  old  hammer  in  his 
hand.  The  little  girl  was-  waiting  about  the 
door,  though  he  had  not  been  there  for  sev 
eral  weeks  except  for  an  hour  or  two  at  a 
time.  He  had  forgotten  his  obligations  to 
the  business  world  in  his  cares  of  nursing 
and  forlorn  housekeeping;  but  now,  as  he 
assured  the  little  clerk,  for  lack  of  a  wiser 
confidante,  he  had  found  a  good  woman,  who 
was  glad  to  come  and  spend  the  rest  of  the 
winter.  She  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  to  persuade  her 
into  more  confiding  speech,  because  she 
always  smiled  at  him  when  he  looked  up  and 
smiled  at  her. 

It  is  astonishing  how  one  may  feel  secure 
in  the  presence  of  dreaded  danger.  David 
Berry  became  used  to  the  surly  calls  of  the 
rent  agent  and  the  wood  and  coal  man,  and 
to  Sam  Wescott's  disagreeable  references  to 
the  money  that  was  still  owed  on  account. 
David  answered  them  all  soberly  that  they 
must  give  him  a  little  time.  He  had  been 
in  hard  sledding  lately,  but  was  picking  up 
his  trade  fast.  The  ready-made  shoe  busi 
ness  had  not  been  successful,  and  while  he 


128      THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

was  at  home,  a  leak  in  the  roof  ruined  the 
best  of  the  stock,  but  he  had  managed  to 
pay  Sam  Wescott  all  but  sixteen  dollars  of 
the  fifty.  If  it  had  not  been  his  rule  to  pay 
the  doctor's  bill  first  after  the  minister's 
dues,  he  might  have  been  ready  with  his 
rent.  David  Berry  never  was  quick-handed  ; 
he  was  growing  slower  every  year,  and  took 
great  pains  with  his  stitches  and  patches. 
At  ten  and  fifteen  cents  each  for  his  minor 
pieces  of  work,  it  took  a  good  while  to  earn 
a  dollar.  "  Give  me  a  little  time,"  he  always 
said  ;  "  I  mean  to  pay  ye  ;  I  've  always  paid 
my  bills,  and  asked  no  favors  of  any  man 
until  now."  He  worked  as  fast  as  he  could 
and  as  long  as  he  could,  and  spring  was 
coming  on  ;  with  the  long  days  he  could  do 
even  better. 

One  day,  Sam  Wescott,  an  impetuous, 
thoughtless  sort  of  man,  who  liked  to  have 
his  own  way  about  things,  and  was  rather 
fond  of  his  petty  grudges,  met  the  rent  col 
lector  of  the  property  to  which  David 
Berry's  place  of  business  belonged. 

"  Can  you  get  anything  out  of  old  Berry 
yet  ?  "  asked  the  rent  collector. 

"  No,  not  yet ;  he  keeps  promising.  I 
guess  he  '11  pay,  but  I  'm  beginning  to  want 


THE  FAILURE   OF  DAVID  BERRY.     129 

my  money,"  said  Wescott  pompously,  as  if 
he  liked  the  reputation  of  having  money  out 
at  interest. 

"  'T  ain't  our  rule  to  keep  tenants  who  get 
behindhand,"  said  the  other.  "  He  's  get 
ting  along  in  years,  and  all  that.  It  ain't 
a  shop  that 's  been  called  desirable  hereto 
fore,  but  there  's  an  Italian  fellow  after  it 
sharp  that  wants  to  keep  fruit,  and  I  've  got 
to  warn  old  Berry  out,  I  guess,  one  o'  these 
days." 

Wescott  ought  to  have  been  ashamed, 
but  he  really  felt  a  lurking  sense  of  satis 
faction.  The  time  had  been  when  he  had 
been  in  debt,  not  to  say  disgrace,  which 
David  Berry  had  taken  occasion  to  justly 
comment  upon,  and  the  chance  had  now 
come  to  assist  at  David's  own  downfall. 
He  might  always  have  been  steady  at 
church,  a  good  neighbor,  and  prompt  of 
pay,  and  able  to  look  every  man  in  the  face, 
but  the  welcome  time  had  come  to  show  him 
up  as  no  better  than  other  folks. 

A  few  days  afterward,  the  mischief  hav 
ing  been  set  in  motion,  the  blow  fell  out  of  a 
clear  sky.  The  wood  and  coal  man  heard 
a  whisper  of  other  debts,  and  was  quickly 
to  the  fore  with  his  own  account ;  and  the 


130  THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

shoe-factory  book-keeper  sent  an  insolent 
young  fellow  to  demand  instant  pay  for  the 
last  purchase  of  shoes,  although  it  wanted 
two  weeks  to  the  regular  time  of  payment. 
Sam  Wescott  felt  sorry  when  he  slouched 
into  the  little  shop  and  saw  his  old  neigh 
bor's  scared,  hurt,  grayish  face.  David 
Berry  was  keeping  on  with  his  work  out  of 
sheer  force  of  habit.  He  did  not  know 
what  his  hands  were  doing ;  his  honest 
heart  grew  duller  and  heavier  every  minute 
with  pain. 

"  I  was  going  to  pay  your  bill  to-morrow, 
sir,"  he  said  appealingly  to  the  rent  collec 
tor.  "I  thought  that  ought  to  come  first. 
I  Ve  been  hard  up  for  ready  money,  but  I  've 
got  within  twd  dollars  of  it."  He  did  not 
look  at  Sam  Wescott. 

"  The  rest  of  us  has  some  rights,"  said  the 
shoe-factory  messenger  loudly. 

A  crowd  was  gathering  about  the  door  ; 
the  poor  little  girl  —  the  little  clerk  —  began 
to  cry.  There  were  angry  voices ;  somebody 
had  brought  a  law  paper.  In  a  few  minutes 
it  was  all  over,  like  dying.  David  Berry 
had  failed,  and  they  were  putting  up  his 
shutters. 

When  he  fairly  comprehended  the  great 


THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY.     131 

blow,  he  stood  up,  swaying  a  little,  just  in 
front  of  the  old  shoe  bench.  "  It  ain't  fair, 
neighbors,"  he  said  brokenly,  —  "  it  ain't 
fair.  I  had  my  rent  'most  ready,  and  I  don't 
owe  Sam  Wescott  but  sixteen  dollars." 

Then  he  burst  into  tears,  —  pleasant  old 
David  Berry,  with  his  gray  head  and  stoop 
ing  shoulders,  —  and  the  little  crowd  ceased 
staring,  and  quickly  disappeared,  as  if  they 
felt  a  sense  of  shame. 

"  They  say  he  owes  everybody,"  one  man 
told  another  contemptuously. 

David  Berry  took  his  old  hat  at  last,  and 
stepped  out  of  the  door.  The  agent  locked 
it,  and  took  the  key  himself  and  put  it  into 
his  pocket.  t 

"  I  '11  send  up  your  things  this  afternoon, 
sir ;  the  law  can't  touch  a  man's  tools,  you 
know,"  he  said  compassionately ;  but  it  was 
too  late  now  for  compassion  to  do  David 
Berry  any  good.  The  old  man  walked 
feebly  away,  holding  the  ragged  little  girl 
by  her  thin  hand. 

Sam  Wescott  did  not  like  the  tone  with 
which  all  his  neighbors  commented  upon  the 
news  of  Mr.  Berry's  failure.  He  explained 
carefully  to  every  one  that  he  felt  sorry,  but 
of  course  he  had  to  put  in  his  little  bill  with 


132      THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

the  rest.  The  whole  sum  of  the  old  shoe 
maker's  indebtedness  came  to  less  than  a 
hundred  dollars. 

All  the  neighbors  and  friends  rallied  to 
show  their  sympathy  and  good-will,  but  Mr. 
Berry  did  not  have  much  to  say.  A  look  of 
patience  under  the  blows  of  fate  settled  into 
his  worn  old  face.  He  had  his  shoe  bench 
put  into  the  kitchen,  and  then  wrote  his 
name  and  occupation  on  a  piece  of  paper, 
and  tacked  it  to  the  gate.  He  sent  away 
the  woman  who  took  care  of  his  wife,  though 
the  good  soul  begged  to  stay,  and  he  worked 
on  and  on  from  earliest  morning  to  latest 
night.  Presently  his  wife  was  about  again, 
nervous  and  fretful,  and  ready  to  tiresomely 
deplore  their  altered  fortunes  to  every  cus 
tomer.  After  the  first  influx  of  business 
prompted  by  sympathy,  they  seemed  to  be 
nearly  forgotten  again,  and  the  old  skilled 
workman  bent  his  pride  so  low  as  to  beg  for 
work  at  the  shoe  factory,  only  to  be  con 
temptuously  refused,  simply  because  he  was 
old. 

Within  a  few  months  the  doctor,  who  had 
been  as  kind  as  a  brother  to  David  Berry 
and  his  wife,  met  Sam  Wescott  going  down 
the  street,  and  with  a  set  look  in  his  kind 


THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY.     133 

face  stopped  his  horse,  and  beckoned  to  the 
poultry  merchant. 

Sam  stepped  out  to  the  roadside. 

"  I've  just  come  from  David  Berry's,"  the 
doctor  said ;  "  and  the  good  old  man  is  going 
to  die. " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Sam,  star 
ing  indignantly. 

"  He 's  going  to  die,"  repeated  the  doc 
tor.  "  And  I  make  no  accusation,  because 
I  would  rather  believe  you  were  thoughtless 
than  malicious  in  shutting  him  up.  But  you 
might  have  fended  off  his  troubles  by  a  sin 
gle  word  ;  you  might  have  said  you  'd  stand 
security  for  his  rent.  It  broke  his  honest 
heart.  You  've  seen  yourself  how  he  's 
grown  twenty  years  older.  You  took  away 
his  pride,  and  you  took  away  his  living,  and 
now  he  's  got  a  touch  of  pneumonia,  and  is 
going  as  fast  as  he  can  go.  I  can't  do  any 
thing  for  him ;  his  vitality  is  all  spent." 

The  doctor  shook  his  reins  and  drove  on, 
and  Wescott  went  back  to  the  sidewalk,  very 
angry  and  somewhat  dismayed.  Nobody 
knew  what  made  him  so  cross  at  home,  espe 
cially  on  the  day  that  David  Berry  died. 
The  day  of  the  funeral  he  pushed  away  from 
the  gate  a  tearful  little  girl  who  stood  there 


134      THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

wistfully  looking  in.  He  muttered  some 
thing  about  children  being  underfoot  and 
staring  at  such  times,  and  did  not  know  that 
she  was  the  silent  little  clerk,  who  had  a 
perfect  right  to  count  herself  among  the 
mourners.  She  watched  everybody  go  into 
the  house  and  waited  until  they  came  out, 
and  when  the  humble  procession  started,  she 
walked  beside  it  along  the  sidewalk,  all  the 
way  to  the  burying-ground,  as  a  faithful 
little  dog  might  have  done. 

The  next  week  somebody  hung  out  a 
small  red  flag,  and  the  neighbors  gathered 
again  to  the  auction.  Mrs.  Berry  was  broken 
in  health,  and  every  one  said  that  it  was 
best  for  her  to  sell  the  house,  keeping  some 
furniture  for  one  room,  and  go  up  country 
to  live  with  a  cousin.  Everything  else  was 
sold, — the  best-room  furniture  (of  which  the 
good  people  had  been  so  proud),  the  barrel 
of  lasts,  the  lapstone  and  round  hammer, 
the  old  shoe  bench  itself.  David  Berry  was 
always  slow  and  behind  the  times,  many 
people  said;  he  had  been  a  good  workman 
in  his  day,  but  he  ran  into  debt  and  failed, 
and  died  ;  and  his  wife  had  broken  up  house 
keeping  and  gone  to  live  up  country.  Hardly 
any  one  remembered  to  say  that  he  paid  all 


THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY.     135 

his  debts  before  he  died,  with  interest,  if 
there  were  any;  the  world  could  think  of 
him  only  as  a  man  that  had  failed  in  busi 
ness. 

Everybody  missed  him  and  his  honest 
work  unexpectedly,  —  the  people  who  had 
been  his  near  neighbors  and  received  many 
kindnesses  at  his  hands,  whom  he  had  watched 
with  at  night  through  their  sicknesses  and 
always  been  friendly  with  by  day.  Even 
strangers  missed  his  kind  face  as  he  passed 
their  houses. 

One  day  Sam  Wescott  was  standing  in 
the  old  shoe  shop,  which  made  a  little  shed 
outside  his  poultry-yard,  and  he  happened 
to  notice  a  bit  of  printed  paper  pasted  to 
the  wall,  low  down,  where  it  must  have  been 
close  to  the  old  shoe  bench.  He  stooped  to 
read  it,  out  of  curiosity,  and  found  that  it 
was  only  a  verse  out  of  the  Bible :  Owe  no 
man  anything  "but  to  love  one  another. 

Sam  Wescott  looked  at  it  again,  then  he 
walked  away  down  the  path  with  his  hands 
behind  him.  In  a  minute  or  two  he  came 
back,  took  his  jack-knife  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  scratched  the  verse  from  the  wall. 
Somehow  there  was  no  getting  rid  of  one's 
thoughts  about  the  old  man.  He  had 


136      THE  FAILURE  OF  DAVID  BERRY. 

laughed  once,  and  told  somebody  that  David 
Berry  could  travel  all  day  in  a  peck  measure  ; 
but  now  it  seemed  as  if  David  Berry  marched 
down  upon  him  from  the  skies  with  a  great 
army  of  those  who  owed  no  man  anything 
but  love,  and  had  paid  their  debt. 


THE  PASSING  OF  SISTEE  BAKSETT. 

MRS.  MERCY  CRANE  was  of  such  firm 
persuasion  that  a  house  is  meant  to  be  lived 
in,  that  during  many  years  she  was  never 
known  to  leave  her  own  neat  two-storied 
dwelling-place  on  the  Kidge  road.  Yet 
being  very  fond  of  company,  in  pleasant 
weather  she  often  sat  in  the  side  doorway 
looking  out  on  her  green  yard,  where  the 
grass  grew  short  and  thick  and  was  undis- 
figured  even  by  a  path  toward  the  steps. 
All  her  faded  green  blinds  were  securely 
tied  together  and  knotted  on  the  inside  by 
pieces  of  white  tape  ;  but  now  and  then, 
when  the  sun  was  not  too  hot  for  her 
carpets,  she  opened  one  window  at  a  time 
for  a  few  hours,  having  pronounced  views 
upon  the  necessity  of  light  and  air.  Al 
though  Mrs.  Crane  was  acknowledged  by 
her  best  friends  to  be  a  peculiar  person  and 
very  set  in  her  ways,  she  was  much  re 
spected,  and  one  acquaintance  vied  with 
another  in  making  up  for  her  melancholy 


138     THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT. 

seclusion  by  bringing  her  all  the  news  they 
could  gather.  She  had  been  left  alone 
many  years  before  by  the  sudden  death  of 
her  husband  from  sunstroke,  and  though 
she  was  by  no  means  poor,  she  had,  as 
some  one  said,  "  such  a  pretty  way  of  tak 
ing  a  little  present  that  you  could  n't  help 
being  pleased  when  you  gave  her  anything." 

For  a  lover  of  society,  such  a  life  must 
have  had  its  difficulties  at  times,  except  that 
the  Ridge  road  was  more  traveled  than  any 
other  in  the  township,  and  Mrs.  Crane  had 
invented  a  system  of  signals,  to  which  she 
always  resorted  in  case  of  wishing  to  speak 
to  some  one  of  her  neighbors. 

The  afternoon  was  wearing  late,  one  day 
toward  the  end  of  summer,  and  Mercy  Crane 
sat  in  her  doorway  dressed  in  a  favorite  old- 
fashioned  light  calico  and  a  small  shoulder 
shawl  figured  with  large  palm  leaves.  She 
was  making  some  tatting  of  a  somewhat 
intricate  pattern  ;  she  believed  it  to  be  the 
prettiest  and  most  durable  of  trimmings, 
and  having  decorated  her  own  wardrobe  in 
the  course  of  unlimited  leisure,  she  was  now 
making  a  few  yards  apiece  for  each  of  her 
more  intimate  friends,  so  that  they  might 
have  something  to  remember  her  by.  She 


THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT.  139 

kept  glancing  up  the  road  as  if  she  expected 
some  one,  but  the  time  went  slowly  by, 
until  at  last  a  woman  appeared  to  view, 
walking  fast,  and  carrying  a  large  bundle  in 
a  checked  handkerchief. 

Then  Mercy  Crane  worked  steadily  for  a 
short  time  without  looking  up,  until  the 
desired  friend  was  crossing  the  grass  be 
tween  the  dusty  road  and  the  steps.  The 
visitor  was  out  of  breath,  and  did  not  re 
spond  to  the  polite  greeting  of  her  hostess 
until  she  had  recovered  herself  to  her  sat 
isfaction.  Mrs.  Crane  made  her  the  kind 
offer  of  a  glass  of  water  or  a  few  pepper 
mints,  but  was  answered  only  by  a  shake 
of  the  head,  so  she  resumed  her  work  for  a 
time  until  the  silence  should  be  broken. 

"  I  have  come  from  the  house  of  mourn 
ing,"  said  Sarah  Ellen  Dow  at  last,  unex 
pectedly. 

"You  don't  tell  me  that  Sister  Bar- 
sett  "  - 

"  She 's  left  us  this  time,  she 's  really 
gone,"  and  the  excited  news-bringer  burst 
into  tears.  The  poor  soul  was  completely 
overwrought ;  she  looked  tired  and  wan,  as 
if  she  had  spent  her  forces  in  sympathy  as 
well  as  hard  work.  She  felt  in  her  great 


140  THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT. 

bundle  for  a  pocket  handkerchief,  but  was 
not  successful  in  the  search,  and  finally  pro 
duced  a  faded  gingham  apron  with  long, 
narrow  strings,  with  which  she  hastily  dried 
her  tears.  The  sad  news  appealed  also  to 
Mercy  Crane,  who  looked  across  to  the 
apple-trees,  and  could  not  see  them  for  a 
dazzle  of  tears  in  her  own  eyes.  The  spec 
tacle  of  Sarah  Ellen  Dow  going  home  with 
her  humble  workaday  possessions,  from  the 
house  where  she  had  gone  in  haste  only  a 
few  days  before  to  care  for  a  sick  person 
well  known  to  them  both,  was  a  very  sad 
sight. 

"  You  sent  word  yesterday  that  you 
should  be  returnin'  early  this  afternoon,  and 
would  stop.  I  presume  I  received  the  mes 
sage  as  you  gave  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Crane, 
who  was  tenacious  in  such  matters  ;  "  but  I 
do  declare  I  never  looked  to  hear  she  was 
gone." 

"  She  's  been  failin'  right  along  sence  yis- 
terday  about  this  time,"  said  the  nurse. 
"  She 's  taken  no  notice  to  speak  of,  an' 
been  eatin'  the  vally  o'  nothin',  I  may  say, 
sence  I  went  there  a-Tuesday.  Her  sisters 
both  come  back  yisterday,  an'  of  course  I 
was  expected  to  give  up  charge  to  them. 


THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT.     141 

They  're   used  to   sickness,  an'  both  havin' 
such  a  name  for  bein'  great  housekeepers  !  " 

Sarah  Ellen  spoke  with  bitterness,  but 
Mrs.  Crane  was  reminded  instantly  of  her 
own  affairs.  "  I  feel  condemned  that  I 
ain't  begun  my  own  fall  cleanin'  yet,"  she 
said,  with  an  ostentatious  sigh. 

"  Plenty  o'  time  to  worry  about  that,"  her 
friend  hastened  to  console  her. 

"  I  do  desire  to  have  everything  decent 
about  my  house,"  resumed  Mrs.  Crane. 
"  There  's  nobody  to  do  anything  but  me. 
If  I  was  to  be  taken  away  sudden  myself,  I 
should  n't  want  to  have  it  said  afterwards 
that  there  was  wisps  under  my  sofy  or  — 
There !  I  can't  dwell  on  my  own  troubles 
with  Sister  Barsett's  loss  right  before  me. 
I  can't  seem  to  believe  she 's  really  passed 
away ;  she  always  was  saying  she  should 
go  in  some  o'  these  spells,  but  I  deemed 
her  to  be  troubled  with  narves." 

Sarah  Ellen  Dow  shook  her  head.  "  I  'm 
all  nerved  up  myself,"  she  said  brokenly. 
"  I  made  light  of  her  sickness  when  I  went 
there  first,  I  'd  seen  her  what  she  called 
dreadful  low  so  many  times ;  but  I  saw  her 
looks  this  morning,  an'  I  begun  to  believe 
her  at  last.  Them  sisters  o'  hers  is  the 


142     THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT. 

master  for  unfeelin'  hearts.  Sister  Barsett 
was  a-layin'  there  yisterday,  an'  one  of  'em 
was  a-settin'  right  by  her  tellin'  how  diffi 
cult  't  was  for  her  to  leave  home,  her  niece 
was  goin'  to  graduate  to  the  high  school,  an' 
they  was  goin'  to  have  a  time  in  the  evening, 
an'  all  the  exercises  promised  to  be  extry 
interesting.  Poor  Sister  Barsett  knew  what 
she  said  an'  looked  at  her  with  contempt, 
an'  then  she  give  a  glance  at  me  an'  closed 
up  her  eyes  as  if  't  was  for  the  last  time.  I 
know  she  felt  it." 

Sarah  Ellen  Dow  was  more  and  more  ex 
cited  by  a  sense  of  bitter  grievance.  Her 
rule  of  the  afflicted  household  had  evidently 
been  interfered  with ;  she  was  not  accustomed 
to  be  ignored  and  set  aside  at  such  times. 
Her  simple  nature  and  uncommon  ability 
found  satisfaction  in  the  exercise  of  authority, 
but  she  had  now  left  her  post  feeling  hurt 
and  wronged,  besides  knowing  something  of 
the  pain  of  honest  affliction. 

"If  it  had  n't  been  for  esteemm'  Sister 
Barsett  as  I  always  have  done,  I  should  have 
told  'em  no,  an'  held  to  it,  when  they  asked 
me  to  come  back  an'  watch  to-night.  'T  ain't 
for  none  o'  their  sakes,  but  Sister  Barsett 
was  a  good  friend  to  me  in  her  way."  Sarah 


THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT.  143 

Ellen  broke  down  once  more,  and  felt  in  her 
bundle  again  hastily,  but  the  handkerchief 
was  again  elusive,  while  a  small  object  fell 
out  upon  the  doorstep  with  a  bounce. 

"  'T  ain't  nothin'  but  a  little  taste-cake  I 
spared  out  o'  the  loaf  I  baked  this  morniii'," 
she  explained,  with  a  blush.  "  I  was  so 
shoved  out  that  I  seemed  to  want  to  turn 
my  hand  to  somethin'  useful  an'  feel  I  was 
still  doin'  for  Sister  Barsett.  Try  a  little 
piece,  won't  you,  Mis'  Crane  ?  I  thought  it 
seemed  light  an'  good." 

They  shared  the  taste-cake  with  serious 
enjoyment,  and  pronounced  it  very  good  in 
deed  when  they  had  finished  and  shaken 
the  crumbs  out  of  their  laps.  "  There  's  no 
body  but  you  shall  come  an'  do  for  me  at 
the  last,  if  I  can  have  my  way  about  things," 
said  Mercy  Crane  impulsively.  She  meant 
it  for  a  tribute  to  Miss  Dow's  character  and 
general  ability,  and  as  such  it  was  meekly 
accepted. 

"  You  're  a  younger  person  than  I  be,  an' 
less  wore,"  said  Sarah  Ellen,  but  she  felt 
better  now  that  she  had  rested,  and  her  con 
versational  powers  seemed  to  be  refreshed 
by  her  share  of  the  little  cake.  "  Doctor 
Bangs  has  behaved  real  pretty,  I  can  say 


144     THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT. 

that,"  she  continued  presently  in  a  mournful 
tone. 

"  Heretofore,  in  the  sickness  of  Sister 
Barsett,  I  have  always  felt  to  hope  certain 
that  she  would  survive ;  she  's  recovered 
from  a  sight  o'  things  in  her  day.  She  has 
been  the  first  to  have  all  the  new  diseases 
that 's  visited  this  region.  I  know  she  had 
the  spinal  mergeetis  months  before  there 
was  any  other  case  about,"  observed  Mrs. 
Crane  with  satisfaction. 

"  An'  the  new  throat  troubles,  all  of  'em," 
agreed  Sarah  Ellen  ;  "an'  has  made  trial  of 
all  the  best  patent  medicines,  an'  could  tell 
you  their  merits  as  no  one  else  could  in  this 
vicinity.  She  never  was  one  that  depended 
on  herbs  alone,  though  she  considered  'em 
extremely  useful  in  some  cases.  Everybody 
has  their  herb,  as  we  know,  but  I  'in  free 
to  say  that  Sister  Barsett  sometimes  done 
everything  she  could  to  kill  herself  with 
such  rovin'  ways  o'  dosin'.  She  must  see  it 
now  she  's  gone  an'  can't  stuff  down  no  more 
invigorators."  Sarah  Ellen  Dow  burst  out 
suddenly  with  this,  as  if  she  could  no  longer 
contain  her  honest  opinion. 

"  There,  there !  you  're  all  worked  up," 
answered  placid  Mercy  Crane,  looking  more 
interested  than  ever. 


THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT.    145 

"An'  she  was  dreadful  handy  to  talk 
religion  to  other  folks,  but  I  've  come  to  a 
realizin'  sense  that  religion  is  somethin'  be 
sides  opinions.  She  an'  Elder  French  has 
been  mostly  of  one  mind,  but  I  don't  know 's 
they  've  got  hold  of  all  the  religion  there 
is." 

"Why,  why,  Sarah  Ellen!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Crane,  but  there  was  still  something  in 
her  tone  that  urged  the  speaker  to  further 
expression  of  her  feelings.  The  good  crea 
ture  was  much  excited,  her  face  was  clouded 
with  disapproval. 

"  I  ain't  forgettin'  nothin'  about  their 
good  points  either,"  she  went  on  in  a  more 
subdued  tone,  and  suddenly  stopped. 

"  Preachin'  '11  be  done  away  with  soon  or 
late,  —  preachin'  o'  Elder  French's  kind,"  an 
nounced  Mercy  Crane,  after  waiting  to  see 
if  her  guest  did  not  mean  to  say  anything 
more.  "  I  should  like  to  read  'em  out  that 
verse  another  fashion  :  '  Be  ye  doers  o'  the 
word,  not  preachers  only,'  would  hit  it 
about  right ;  but  there,  it 's  easy  for  all  of 
us  to  talk.  In  my  early  days  I  used  to  like 
to  get  out  to  meetin'  regular,  because  sure 
as  I  did  n't  I  had  bad  luck  all  the  week.  I 
did  n't  feel  pacified  'less  I  'd  been  half  a  day, 


146    THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT. 

but  I  was  out  all  clay  the  Sabbath  before 
Mr.  Barlow  died  as  he  did.  So  you  mean 
to  say  that  Sister  Barsett  's  really  gone  ?  " 

Mrs.  Crane's  tone  changed  to  one  of  real 
concern,  and  her  manner  indicated  that  she 
had  put  the  preceding  conversation  behind 
her  with  decision. 

"  She  was  herself  to  the  last,"  instantly 
responded  Miss  Dow.  "  I  see  her  put  out 
a  thumb  an'  finger  from  under  the  spread 
an'  pinch  up  a  fold  of  her  sister  Beckett's 
dress,  to  try  an'  see  if  't  was  all  wool.  I 
thought 't  wa'n't  all  wool,  myself,  an'  I  know 
it  now  by  the  way  she  looked.  She  was  a 
very  knowin'  person  about  materials ;  we 
shall  miss  poor  Mis'  Barsett  in  many  ways, 
she  was  always  the  one  to  consult  with  about 
matters  o'  dress." 

"She  passed  away  easy  at  the  last,  I 
hope  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Crane  with  interest. 

"Why,  I  wa'n't  there,  if  you'll  believe 
it !"  exclaimed  Sarah  Ellen,  flushing,  and 
looking  at  her  friend  for  sympathy.  "Sis 
ter  Barsett  revived  up  the  first  o'  the  after 
noon,  an'  they  sent  for  Elder  French.  She 
took  notice  of  him,  and  he  exhorted  quite  a 
spell,  an'  then  he  spoke  o'  there  being  need 
of  air  in  the  room,  Mis'  Deckett  havin' 


THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT.    147 

closed  every  window,  an'  she  asked  me  of 
all  folks  if  I  had  n't  better  step  out ;  but 
Elder  French  come  too,  an'  he  was  very  rea 
sonable,  an'  had  a  word  with  me  about  Mis' 
Deckett  an'  Mis'  Peak  an'  the  way  they  was 
workin'  things.  I  told  him  right  out  how 
they  never  come  near  when  the  rest  of  us 
was  havin'  it  so  hard  with  her  along  in  the 
spring,  but  now  they  thought  she  was  re'lly 
goin'  to  die,  they  come  settlin'  down  like  a 
pair  o'  old  crows  in  a  field  to  pick  for  what 
they  could  get.  I  just  made  up  my  mind 
they  should  have  all  the  care  if  they  wanted 
it.  It  did  n't  seem  as  if  there  was  anything 
more  I  could  do  for  Sister  Barsett,  an'  I  set 
there  in  the  kitchen  within  call  an'  waited, 
an'  when  I  heard  'em  sayiii',  '  There,  she  's 
gone,  she  's  gone  ! '  and  Mis'  Deckett  a-weep- 
in',  I  put  on  my  bunnit  and  stepped  myself 
out  into  the  road.  I  felt  to  repent  after  I  had 
gone  but  a  rod,  but  I  was  so  worked  up,  an' 
I  thought  they  'd  call  me  back,  an'  then  I 
was  put  out  because  they  did  n't,  an'  so  here 
I  be.  I  can't  help  it  now."  Sarah  Ellen 
was  crying  again ;  she  and  Mrs.  Crane 
could  not  look  at  each  other. 

"  Well,  you  set  an'  rest,"  said  Mrs.  Crane 
kindly,  and  with  the  merest  shadow  of  disap- 


148    THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT. 

proval.  "  You  set  an'  rest,  an'  by  an'  by,  if 
you  'd  feel  better,  you  could  go  back  an'  just 
make  a  little  stop  an'  inquire  about  the  ar 
rangements.  I  would  n't  harbor  no  feelin's, 
if  they  be  inconsiderate  folks.  Sister  Bar- 
sett  has  often  deplored  their  actions  in  my 
hearing  an'  wished  she  had  sisters  like  other 
folks.  With  all  her  faults  she  was  a  use 
ful  person  an'  a  good  neighbor,"  mourned 
Mercy  Crane  sincerely.  "  She  was  one  that 
always  had  somethin'  interestin'  to  tell,  an' 
if  it  wa'n't  for  her  dyin'  spells  an'  all  that 
sort  o'  nonsense,  she  'd  make  a  figger  in  the 
world,  she  would  so.  She  walked  with  an 
air  always,  Mis'  Barsett  did  ;  you  'd  ask  who 
she  was  if  you  had  n't  known,  as  she  passed 
you  by.  How  quick  we  forget  the  outs  about 
anybody  that 's  gone  !  but  I  always  feel  grate 
ful  to  anybody  that 's  friendly,  situated  as 
I  be.  I  shall  miss  her  runnin'  over.  I  can 
seem  to  see  her  now,  coming  over  the  rise  in 
the  road.  But  don't  you  get  in  a  way  of  tak- 
in'  things  too  hard,  Sarah  Ellen  !  You  've 
worked  yourself  all  to  pieces  since  I  saw 
you  last ;  you  're  gettin'  to  be  as  lean  as  a 
meetin'-house  fly.  Now,  you  're  comin'  in  to 
have  a  cup  o'  tea  with  me,  an'  then  you  '11 
feel  better.  I  've  got  some  new  molasses 
gingerbread  that  I  baked  this  mornin'." 


THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT.  149 

"  I  do  feel  beat  out,  Mis'  Crane,"  acknow 
ledged  the  poor  little  soul,  glad  of  a  chance 
to  speak,  but  touched  by  this  unexpected 
mark  of  consideration.  "  If  I  could  ha'  done 
as  I  wanted  to  I  should  be  f  eelin'  well  enough, 
but  to  be  set  aside  an'  ordered  about,  where 
I  'd  taken  the  lead  in  sickness  so  much, 
an'  knew  how  to  deal  with  Sister  Barsett  so 
well!  She  might  be  livin'  now,  perhaps" 

"  Come  ;  we  'd  better  go  in,,  't  is  gettiii' 
damp,"  and  the  mistress  of  the  house  rose 
so  hurriedly  as  to  seem  bustling.  "  Don't 
dwell  on  Sister  Barsett  an'  her  foolish  folks 
no  more ;  I  would  n't,  if  I  was  you." 

They  went  into  the  front  room,  which  was 
dim  with  the  twilight  of  the  half -closed  blinds 
and  two  great  syringa  bushes  that  grew 
against  them.  Sarah  Ellen  put  down  her 
bundle  and  bestowed  herself  in  the  large, 
cane-seated  rocking-chair.  Mrs.  Crane  di 
rected  her  to  stay  there  awhile  and  rest,  and 
then  come  out  into  the  kitchen  when  she  got 
ready. 

A  cheerful  clatter  of  dishes  was  heard  at 
once  upon  Mrs.  Crane's  disappearance.  "  I 
hope  she  's  goin'  to  make  one  o'  her  nice 
short-cakes,  but  I  don't  know  's  she  '11  think 
it  quite  worth  while,"  thought  the  guest 


150    THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT. 

humbly.  She  desired  to  go  out  into  the 
kitchen,  but  it  was  proper  behavior  to  wait 
until  she  should  be  called.  Mercy  Crane  was 
not  a  person  with  whom  one  could  venture  to 
take  liberties.  Presently  Sarah  Ellen  began 
to  feel  better.  She  did  not  often  find  such 
a  quiet  place,  or  the  quarter  of  an  hour  of 
idleness  in  which  to  enjoy  it,  and  was  glad 
to  make  the  most  of  this  opportunity.  Just 
now  she  felt  tired  and  lonely.  She  was  a 
busy,  unselfish,  eager -minded  creature  by 
nature,  but  now,  while  grief  was  sometimes 
uppermost  in  her  mind  and  sometimes  a 
sense  of  wrong,  every  moment  found  her 
more  peaceful,  and  the  great  excitement  lit 
tle  by  little  faded  away. 

"  What  a  person  poor  Sister  Barsett  was 
to  dread  growing  old  so  she  couldn't  get 
about.  I  'm  sure  I  shall  miss  her  as  much 
as  anybody,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  suddenly 
opening  the  kitchen  door,  and  letting  in  an 
unmistakable  and  delicious  odor  of  short 
cake  that  revived  still  more  the  drooping 
spirits  of  her  guest.  "  An'  a  good  deal  of 
knowledge  has  died  with  her,"  she  added, 
coming  into  the  room  and  seeming  to  make 
it  lighter. 

"  There,  she  knew  a  good  deal,  but  she 


THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT.    151 

did  n't  know  all,  especially  o'  doctorin',"  in 
sisted  Sarah  Ellen  from  the  rocking-chair, 
with  an  unexpected  little  laugh.  "  She  used 
to  lay  down  the  law  to  me  as  if  I  hacl  neither 
sense  nor  experience,  but  when  it  came  to 
her  bad  spells  she'd  always  send  for  me. 
It  takes  everybody  to  know  everything,  but 
Sister  Barsett  was  of  an  opinion  that  her 
information  was  sufficient  for  the  town. 
She  was  tellin'  me  the  day  I  went  there  how 
she  disliked  to  have  old  Mis'  Doubleday 
come  an'  visit  with  her,  an'  remarked  that 
she  called  Mis'  Doubleday  very  officious. 
4  Went  right  down  on  her  knees  an'  prayed,' 
says  she.  '  Anybody  would  have  thought  I 
was  a  heathen  ! '  But  I  kind  of  pacified  her 
feelin's,  an'  told  her  I  supposed  the  old  lady 
meant  well." 

"Did  she  give  away  any  of  her  things? 

—  Mis'    Barsett,   I    mean,"    inquired   Mrs. 
Crane. 

"  Not  in  my  heariii',"  replied  Sarah  Ellen 
Dow.  "  Except  one  day,  the  first  of  the 
week,  she  told  her  oldest  sister,  Mis' 
Deckett,  —  't  was  that  first  day  she  rode  over, 

—  that  she    might   have  her  green  quilted 
petticoat ;  you  see  it  was  a  rainy  day,  an'  Mis' 
Deckett  had  complained  o'  f  eelin'  thin.     She 


152    THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BAESETT. 

went  right  up  an'  got  it,  and  put  it  on  an' 
wore  it  off,  an'  I  'm  sure  I  thought  no  more 
about  it,  until  I  heard  Sister  Barsett  groanin' 
dreadf  id  in  the  night.  I  got  right  up  to  see 
what  the  matter  was,  an'  what  do  you  think 
but  she  was  wantin'  that  petticoat  back,  and 
not  thinking  any  too  well  o'  Nancy  Deckett 
for  takin'  it  when  't  was  offered.  '  Nancy 
never  showed  no  sense  o'  propriety,'  says 
Sister  Barsett ;  I  just  wish  you  'd  heard  her 
go  on ! 

"  If  she  had  felt  to  remember  me,"  con 
tinued  Sarah  Ellen,  after  they  had  laughed 
a  little,  "  I  'd  full  as  soon  have  some  of  her 
nice  crockery  -  ware.  She  told  me  once, 
years  ago,  when  I  was  stoppin'  to  tea  with 
her  an'  we  were  havin'  it  real  friendly,  that 
she  should  leave  me  her  Britannia  tea-set, 
but  I  ain't  got  it  in  writin',  and  I  can't  say 
she  's  ever  referred  to  the  matter  since.  It 
ain't  as  if  I  had  a  home  o'  my  own  to  keep 
it  in,  but  I  should  have  thought  a  great  deal 
of  it  for  her  sake,"  and  the  speaker's  voice 
faltered.  "  I  must  say  that  with  all  her  vir 
tues  she  never  was  a  first-class  housekeeper, 
but  I  would  n't  say  it  to  any  but  a  friend. 
You  never  eat  no  preserves  o'  hers  that 
wa'n't  commencin'  to  work,  an'  you  know 


THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT.    153 

as  well  as  I  how  little  forethought  she  had 
about  putting  away  her  woolens.  I  sat  be 
hind  her  once  in  meetin'  when  I  was  stop- 
pin'  with  the  Tremletts  and  so  occupied  a 
seat  in  their  pew,  an'  I  see  between  ten  an' 
a  dozen  moth  millers  come  workin'  out  o' 
her  fitch-fur  tippet.  They  was  flutterin' 
round  her  bonnet  same  's  't  was  a  lamp.  I 
should  be  mortified  to  death  to  have  such  a 
thing  happen  to  me." 

"  Every  housekeeper  has  her  weak  point ; 
I  've  got  mine  as  much  as  anybody  else," 
acknowledged  Mercy  Crane  with  spirit, 
"  but  you  never  see  no  moth  millers  come 
workin'  out  o'  me  in  a  public  place." 

"  Ain't  your  oven  beginning  to  get  over- 
het  ?  "  anxiously  inquired  Sarah  Ellen  Dow, 
who  was  sitting  more  in  the  draught,  and 
could  not  bear  to  have  any  accident  happen 
to  the  supper.  Mrs.  Crane  flew  to  a  short 
cake's  rescue,  and  presently  called  her  guest 
to  the  table. 

The  two  women  sat  down  to  deep  and 
brimming  cups  of  tea.  Sarah  Ellen  noticed 
with  great  gratification  that  her  hostess  had 
put  on  two  of  the  best  tea-cups  and  some  cit 
ron-melon  preserves.  It  was  not  an  every 
day  supper.  She  was  used  to  hard  fare,  poor, 


154    THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT. 

hard-working  Sarah  Ellen,  and  this  handsome 
social  attention  did  her  good.  Sister  Crane 
rarely  entertained  a  friend,  and  it  would  be 
a  pleasure  to  speak  of  the  tea-drinking  for 
weeks  to  come. 

"  You  've  put  yourself  out  quite  a  con- 
sid'able  for  me,"  she  acknowledged.  "  How 
pretty  these  cups  is !  You  ought  n't  to  use 
'em  so  common  as  for  me.  I  wish  I  had  a 
home  I  could  really  call  my  own  to  ask  you 
to,  but  't  ain't  never  been  so  I  could.  Some 
times  I  wonder  what 's  goin'  to  become  o'  me 
when  I  get  so  I  'm  past  work.  Takin'  care 
o'  sick  folks  an'  bein'  in  houses  where 
there  's  a  sight  goin'  on  an'  everybody  in  a 
hurry  kind  of  wears  on  me  now  I  'm  most 
a-gittiii'  in  years.  I  was  wishin'  the  other 
day  that  I  could  get  with  some  comfortable 
kind  of  a  sick  person,  where  I  could  live 
right  along  quiet  as  other  folks  do,  but  folks 
never  sends  for  me  'less  they  're  drove  to  it. 
I  ain't  laid  up  anything  to  really  depend 
upon." 

The  situation  appealed  to  Mercy  Crane, 
well  to  do  as  she  was  and  not  burdened  with 
responsibilities.  She  stirred  uneasily  in  her 
chair,  but  could  not  bring  herself  to  the 
point  of  offering  Sarah  Ellen  the  home  she 
coveted. 


THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT.    155 

"  Have  some  hot  tea,"  she  insisted,  in  a 
matter  of  fact  tone,  and  Sarah  Ellen's  face, 
which  had  been  lighted  by  a  sudden  eager 
hopefulness,  grew  dull  and  narrow  again. 

"Plenty,  plenty,  Mis'  Crane,"  she  said 
sadly,  "  't  is  beautiful  tea,  —  you  always  have 
good  tea ; "  but  she  could  not  turn  her 
thoughts  from  her  own  uncertain  future. 
"  None  of  our  folks  has  ever  lived  to  be  a 
burden,"  she  said  presently,  in  a  pathetic 
tone,  putting  down  her  cup.  "  My  mother 
was  thought  to  be  doing  well  until  four 
o'clock  an'  was  dead  at  ten.  My  Aunt 
Nancy  came  to  our  house  well  at  twelve 
o'clock  an'  died  that  afternoon ;  my  father 
was  sick  but  ten  days.  There  was  dear 
sister  Betsy,  she  did  go  in  consumption,  but 
't  wa'n't  an  expensive  sickness." 

"  I  've  thought  sometimes  about  you,  how 
you  'd  get  past  rovin'  from  house  to  house 
one  o'  these  days.  I  guess  your  friends 
will  stand  by  you."  Mrs.  Crane  spoke 
with  unwonted  sympathy,  and  Sarah  Ellen's 
heart  leaped  with  joy. 

"You  're  real  kind,"  she  said  simply. 
"  There  's  nobody  I  set  so  much  by.  But  I 
shall  miss  Sister  Barsett,  when  all 's  said  an' 
done.  She  's  asked  me  many  a  time  to  stop 


156    THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT. 

with  her  when  I  was  n't  doin'  nothin7.  We 
all  have  our  failin's,  but  she  was  a  friendly 
creatur'.  I  sha'n't  want  to  see  her  laid 
away." 

"  Yes,  I  was  thinkin'  a  few  minutes  ago 
that  I  should  n't  want  to  look  out  an'  see 
the  funeral  go  by.  She  's  one  o'  the  old 
neighbors.  I  s'pose  I  shall  have  to  look, 
or  I  should  n't  feel  right  afterward,"  said 
Mrs.  Crane  mournfully.  "If  I  had  n't 
got  so  kind  of  housebound,"  she  added  with 
touching  frankness,  "  I  'd  just  as  soon  go 
over  with  you  an'  offer  to  watch  this  night." 

"  'T  would  astonish  Sister  Barsett  so  I 
don't  know  but  she  'd  return."  Sarah  Ellen's 
eyes  danced  with  amusement ;  she  could  not 
resist  her  own  joke,  and  Mercy  Crane  her 
self  had  to  smile. 

"  Now  I  must  be  goin',  or  't  will  be  dark," 
said  the  guest,  rising  and  sighing  after  she 
had  eaten  her  last  crumb  of  gingerbread. 
"  Yes,  thank  ye,  you  're  real  good,  I  will 
come  back  if  I  find  I  ain't  wanted.  Look 
what  a  pretty  sky  there  is  !  "  and  the  two 
friends  went  to  the  side  door  and  stood  to 
gether  in  a  moment  of  affectionate  silence, 
looking  out  toward  the  sunset  across  the 

O 

wide  fields.     The  country  was  still  with  that 


THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT.    157 

deep  rural  stillness  which  seems  to  mean  the 
absence  of  humanity.  Only  the  thrushes 
were  singing  far  away  in  the  walnut  woods 
beyond  the  orchard,  and  some  crows  were 
flying  over  and  cawed  once  loudly,  as  if  they 
were  speaking  to  the  women  at  the  door. 

Just  as  the  friends  were  parting,  after 
most  grateful  acknowledgments  from  Sarah 
Ellen  Dow,  some  one  came  driving  along  the 
road  in  a  hurry  and  stopped. 

"  Who  's  that  with  you,  Mis'  Crane  ?  " 
called  one  of  their  near  neighbors. 

"  It 's  Sarah  Ellen  Dow,"  answered  Mrs. 
Crane.  "  What 's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  thought  so,  but  I  could  n't  rightly 
see.  Come,  they  are  in  a  peck  o'  trouble 
up  to  Sister  Barsett's,  wonderin'  where  you 
be,"  grumbled  the  man.  "  They  can't  do 
nothin'  with  her ;  she  's  drove  off  everybody 
an'  keeps  a-screechiii'  for  you.  Come,  step 
along,  Sarah  Ellen,  do !  " 

"  Sister  Barsett !  "  exclaimed  both  the 
women.  Mercy  Crane  sank  down  upon  the 
doorstep,  but  Sarah  Ellen  stepped  out  upon 
the  grass  all  of  a  tremble,  and  went  toward 
the  wagon.  "  They  said  this  afternoon  that 
Sister  Barsett  was  gone,"  she  managed  to 
say.  "  What  did  they  mean  ?  " 


158    THE  PASSING  OF  SISTER  BARSETT. 

"  Gone  where  ? "  asked  the  impatient 
neighbor.  "I  expect  't  was  one  of  her 
spells.  She  's  come  to ;  they  say  she  wants 
somethin'  hearty  for  her  tea.  Nobody  can't 
take  one  step  till  you  get  there,  neither." 

Sarah  Ellen  was  still  dazed  ;  she  returned 
to  the  doorway,  where  Mercy  Crane  sat  shak 
ing  with  laughter.  "  I  don't  know  but  we 
might  as  well  laugh  as  cry,"  she  said  in  an 
aimless  sort  of  way.  "  I  know  you  too  well 
to  think  you  're  going  to  repeat  a  single 
word.  Well,  I  '11  get  my  bonnet  an'  start ; 
I  expect  I  've  got  considerable  to  cope  with, 
but  I  'm  well  rested.  Good -night,  Mis' 
Crane,  I  certain  did  have  a  beautiful  tea, 
whatever  the  future  may  have  in  store." 

She  wore  a  solemn  expression  as  she 
mounted  into  the  wagon  in  haste  and  de 
parted,  but  she  was  far  out  of  sight  when 
Mercy  Crane  stopped  laughing  and  went 
into  the  house. 


MISS  ESTHER'S  GUEST. 
I. 

OLD  Miss  Porley  put  on  her  silk  shawl, 
and  arranged  it  carefully  over  her  thin  shoul 
ders,  and  pinned  it  with  a  hand  that  shook  a 
little  as  if  she  were  much  excited.  She  bent 
forward  to  examine  the  shawl  in  the  mahog 
any-framed  mirror,  for  there  was  a  frayed 
and  tender  spot  in  the  silk  where  she  had 
pinned  it  so  many  years.  The  shawl  was 
very  old ;  it  had  been  her  mother's,  and  she 
disliked  to  wear  it  too  often,  but  she  never 
could  make  up  her  mind  to  go  out  into  the 
street  in  summer,  as  some  of  her  neighbors 
did,  with  nothing  over  her  shoulders  at  all. 
Next  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and  tried  to  set 
it  straight,  allowing  for  a  wave  in  the  look 
ing-glass  that  made  one  side  of  her  face 
appear  much  longer  than  the  other ;  then 
she  drew  on  a  pair  of  well-darned  silk  gloves  ; 
one  had  a  wide  crack  all  the  way  up  the 
back  of  the  hand,  but  they  were  still  neat 


160  MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST. 

and  decent  for  every-day  wear,  if  she  were 
careful  to  keep  her  left  hand  under  the  edge 
of  the  shawl.  She  had  discussed  the  pro 
priety  of  drawing  the  raveled  silk  together, 
but  a  thick  seam  would  look  very  ugly,  and 
there  was  something  accidental  about  the 
crack. 

Then,  after  hesitating  a  few  moments,  she 
took  a  small  piece  of  folded  white  letter- 
paper  from  the  table  and  went  out  of  the 
house,  locking  the  door  and  trying  it,  and 
stepped  away  bravely  down  the  village  street. 
Everybody  said,  "  How  do  you  do,  Miss 
Porley  ?  "  or  "  Good-mornin',  Esther."  Every 
one  in  Daleham  knew  the  good  woman ;  she 
was  one  of  the  unchanging  persons,  always 
to  be  found  in  her  place,  and  always  pleased 
and  friendly  and  ready  to  take  an  interest 
in  old  and  young.  She  and  her  mother, 
who  had  early  been  left  a  widow,  had  been 
for  many  years  the  village  tailoresses  and 
makers  of  little  boys'  clothes.  Mrs.  Porley 
had  been  dead  three  years,  however,  and 
her  daughter  "  Easter,"  as  old  friends  called 
our  heroine,  had  lived  quite  alone.  She 
was  made  very  sorrowful  by  her  loneliness, 
but  she  never  could  be  persuaded  to  take 
anybody  to  board  :  she  could  not  bear 


MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST.  161 

to  think  of  any  one's  taking  her  mother's 
place. 

It  was  a  warm  summer  morning,  and  Miss 
Porley  had  not  very  far  to  walk,  but  she  was 
still  more  shaky  and  excited  by  the  time  she 
reached  the  First  Church  parsonage.  She 
stood  at  the  gate  undecidedly,  and,  after  she 
pushed  it  open  a  little  way,  she  drew  back 
again,  and  felt  a  curious  beating  at  her  heart 
and  a  general  reluctance  of  mind  and  body. 
At  that  moment  the  minister's  wife,  a  pleas 
ant  young  woman  with  a  smiling,  eager  face, 
looked  out  of  the  window  and  asked  the 
tremulous  visitor  to  come  in.  Miss  Esther 
straightened  herself  and  went  briskly  up  the 
walk ;  she  was  very  fond  of  the  minister's 
wife,  who  had  only  been  in  Daleham  a  few 
months. 

"  Won't  you  take  off  your  shawl  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Way  ton  affectionately  ;  "I  have  just 
been  making  gingerbread,  and  you  shall  have 
a  piece  as  soon  as  it  cools. " 

"  I  don't  know 's  I  ought  to  stop,"  answered 
Miss  Esther,  flushing  quickly.  "  I  came  on 
business ;  I  won't  keep  you  long." 

"  Oh,  please  stay  a  little  while,"  urged  the 
hostess.  "  I  '11  take  my  sewing,  if  you  don't 
mind ;  there  are  two  or  three  things  that  I 
want  to  ask  you  about." 


162  MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST. 

"  I  've  thought  and  flustered  a  sight  over 
taking  this  step,"  said  good  old  Esther 
abruptly.  "  I  had  to  conquer  a  sight  o'  re 
luctance,  I  must  say.  I  've  got  so  used  to 
livin'  by  myself  that  I  sha'n't  know  how  to 
consider  another.  But  I  see  I  ain't  got 
common  feeliii'  for  others  unless  I  can  set 
my  own  comfort  aside  once  in  a  while.  I  've 
brought  you  my  name  as  one  of  those  that 
will  take  one  o'  them  city  folks  that  needs  a 
spell  o'  change.  It  come  straight  home  to 
me  how  I  should  be  feeling  it  by  this  time, 
if  my  lot  had  been  cast  in  one  o'  them  city 
garrets  that  the  minister  described  so  affect 
ing.  If  't  had  n't  been  for  kind  consider 
ation  somewheres,  mother  an'  me  might  have 
sewed  all  them  pleasant  years  away  in  the 
city  that  we  enjoyed  so  in  our  own  home, 
and  our  garding  to  step  right  out  into  when 
our  sides  set  in  to  ache.  And  I  ain't  rich, 
but  we  was  able  to  save  a  little  something, 
and  now  I  'm  eatin'  of  it  all  up  alone.  It 
come  to  me  I  should  like  to  have  somebody 
take  a  taste  out  o'  mother's  part.  Now, 
don't  you  let  'em  send  me  no  rampin'  boys 
like  them  Barnard's  folks  had  come  last 
year,  that  vexed  dumb  creatur's  so ;  and  I 
don't  know  how  to  cope  with  no  kind  o' 


MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST.  163 

men-folks  or  strange  girls,  but  I  should 
know  how  to  do  for  a  woman  that  's  get 
ting  well  along  in  years,  an'  has  come  to  feel 
kind  o'  spent.  P'raps  we  ain't  no  right  to 
pick  an'  choose,  but  I  should  know  best  how 
to  make  that  sort  comfortable  on  'count  of 
doin'  for  mother  and  studying  what  she 
preferred." 

Miss  Esther  rose  with  quaint  formality 
and  put  the  folded  paper,  on  which  she  had 
neatly  written  her  name  and  address,  into 
Mrs.  Way  ton's  hand.  Mrs.  Way  ton  rose 
soberly  to  receive  it,  and  then  they  both  sat 
down  again. 

"  I  'm  sure  that  you  will  feel  more  than  re 
paid  for  your  kindness,  dear  Miss  Esther," 
said  the  minister's  wife.  "  I  know  one  of  the 
ladies  who  have  charge  of  the  arrangements 
for  the  Country  Week,  and  I  will  explain 
as  well  as  I  can  the  kind  of  guest  you  have 
in  mind.  I  quite  envy  her :  I  have  often 
thought,  when  I  was  busy  and  tired,  how 
much  I  should  like  to  run  along  the  street 
and  make  you  a  visit  in  your  dear  old-fash 
ioned  little  house." 

"I  should  be  more  than  pleased  to  have 
you,  I  'm  sure,"  said  Miss  Esther,  startled 
into  a  bright  smile  and  forgetting  her  anx- 


164  MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST. 

iety.  "  Come  any  day,  and  take  me  just  as  I 
am.  We  used  to  have  a  good  deal  o'  com 
pany  years  ago,  when  there  was  a  number  o' 
mother's  folks  still  livin'  over  Ashfield  way. 
Sure  as  we  had  a  pile  o'  work  on  hand  and 
was  hurrying  for  dear  life  an'  limb,  a  wagon- 
load  would  light  down  at  the  front  gate 
to  spend  the  day  an'  have  an  early  tea. 
Mother  never  was  one  to  get  flustered  same  's 
I  do  'bout  everything.  She  was  a  lovely 
cook,  and  she  'd  fill  'em  up  an'  cheer  'em, 
and  git  'em  off  early  as  she  could,  an'  then 
we  'd  be  kind  o'  waked  up  an'  spirited  our 
selves,  and  would  set  up  late  sewin'  and 
talkin'  the  company  over,  an'  I  'd  have 
things  saved  to  tell  her  that  had  been  said 
while  she  was  out  o'  the  room.  I  make  such 
a  towse  over  everything  myself,  but  mother 
was  waked  right  up  and  felt  pleased  an' 
smart,  if  anything  unexpected  happened. 
I  miss  her  more  every  year,"  and  Miss 
Esther  gave  a  great  sigh.  "  I  s'pose  't  wa'n't 
reasonable  to  expect  that  I  could  have  her 
to  help  me  through  with  old  age,  but  I  'm  a 
poor  tool,  alone." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  must  n't  say  that !  "  ex 
claimed  the  minister's  wife.  "  Why,  nobody 
could  get  along  without  you.  I  wish  I  had 


MTSS  ESTHER'S   GUEST.  165 

come  to  Daleham  in  time  to  know  your 
mother  too." 

Miss  Esther  shook  her  head  sadly.  "  She 
would  have  set  everything  by  you  and  Mr. 
Wayton.  Now  I  must  be  getting  back  in 
case  I  'm  wanted,  but  you  let  'em  send  me 
somebody  right  away,  while  my  bush  beans 
is  so  nice.  An'  if  any  o'  your  little  boy's 
clothes  wants  repairiii',  just  give  'em  to  me  ; 
't  will  be  a  real  pleasant  thing  to  set  a  few 
stitches.  Or  the  minister's  ;  ain't  there  some 
thing  needed  for  him  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wrayton  was  about  to  say  no,  when 
she  became  conscious  of  the  pleading  old 
face  before  her.  "  I  'm  sure  you  are  most 
kind,  dear  friend,"  she  answered,  "  and  I  do 
have  a  great  deal  to  do.  I  '11  bring  you  two 
or  three  things  to-night  that  are  beyond  my 
art,  as  I  go  to  evening  meeting.  Mr.  Way- 
ton  frayed  out  his  best  coat  sleeve  yesterday, 
and  I  was  disheartened,  for  we  had  counted 
upon  his  not  having  a  new  one  before  the 
fall." 

"  'T  would  be  mere  play  to  me,"  said  Miss 
Esther,  and  presently  she  went  smiling  down 
the  street. 


166  MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST. 


II. 

The  Committee  for  the  Country  Week  in 
a  certain  ward  of  Boston  were  considering 
the  long  list  of  children,  and  mothers  with 
babies,  and  sewing-women,  who  were  looking 
forward,  some  of  them  for  the  first  time  in 
many  years,  to  a  country  holiday.  Some 
were  to  go  as  guests  to  hospitable,  generous 
farmhouses  that  opened  their  doors  willingly 
now  and  then  to  tired  city  people  ;  for  some 
persons  board  could  be  paid. 

The  immediate  arrangements  of  that  time 
were  settled  at  last,  except  that  Mrs.  Belton, 
the  chairman,  suddenly  took  a  letter  from 
her  pocket.  "  I  had  almost  forgotten  this," 
she  said ;  "  it  is  another  place  offered  in  dear 
quiet  old  Daleham.  My  friend,  the  min 
ister's  wife  there,  writes  me  a  word  about  it : 
4  The  applicant  desires  especially  an  old  per 
son,  being  used  to  the  care  of  an  aged  parent 
and  sure  of  lier  power  of  making  such  a  one 
comfortable,  and  she  would  like  to  have  her 
guest  come  as  soon  as  possible.'  My  friend 
asks  me  to  choose  a  person  of  some  refine 
ment,  —  '  one  who  would  appreciate  the 
delicate  simplicity  and  quaint  ways  of  the 
hostess.' " 


MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST.  167 

Mrs.  Belton  glanced  hurriedly  down  the 
page.  "  I  believe  that 's  all,"  she  said.  "  How 
about  that  nice  old  sewing-woman,  Mrs.  Con 
nolly,  in  Bantry  Street  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  some  one  entreated,  looking  up 
from  her  writing.  "  Why  is  n't  it  just  the 
place  for  my  old  Mr.  Rill,  the  dear  old  Eng 
lishman  who  lives  alone  up  four  flights  in 
Town  Court  and  has  the  bullfinch.  He  used 
to  engrave  seals,  and  his  eyes  gave  out,  and 
he  is  so  thrifty  with  his  own  bit  of  savings 
and  an  atom  of  a  pension.  Some  one  pays 
his  expenses  to  the  country,  and  this  sounds 
like  a  place  he  would  be  sure  to  like.  I  've 
been  watching  for  the  right  chance." 

"  Take  it,  then,"  said  the  busy  chairman, 
and  there  was  a  little  more  writing  and  talk 
ing,  and  then  the  committee  meeting  was 
over  which  settled  Miss  Esther  Porley's 
fate. 


III. 


The  journey  to  Daleham  was  a  great  ex 
perience  to  Mr.  Rill.  He  was  a  sensible  old 
person,  who  knew  well  that  he  was  getting 
stiffer  and  clumsier  than  need  be  in  his  gar 
ret,  and  that,  as  certain  friends  had  said,  a 


168  MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST. 

short  time  spent  in  the  country  would  cheer 
and  invigorate  him.  There  had  been  occa 
sional  propositions  that  he  should  leave  his 
garret  altogether  and  go  to  the  country  to 
live,  or  at  least  to  the  suburbs  of  the  city. 
He  could  not  see  things  close  at  hand  so  well 
as  he  could  take  a  wide  outlook,  and  as  his 
outlook  from  the  one  garret  window  was  a 
still  higher  brick  wall  and  many  chimneys, 
he  was  losing  a  great  deal  that  he  might 
have  had.  But  so  long  as  he  was  expected 
to  take  an  interest  in  the  unseen  and  un 
known  he  failed  to  accede  to  any  plans  about 
the  country  home,  and  declared  that  he  was 
well  enough  in  his  high  abode.  He  had 
lost  a  sister  a  few  years  before  who  had  been 
his  mainstay,  but  with  his  hands  so  well  used 
to  delicate  work  he  had  been  less  bungling 
in  his  simple  household  affairs  than  many 
another  man  might  have  been.  But  he  was 
very  lonely  and  was  growing  anxious ;  as  he 
was  rattled  along  in  the  train  toward  Daleham 
he  held  the  chirping  bullfinch's  cage  fast 
with  both  hands,  and  said  to  himself  now 
and  then,  "  This  may  lead  to  something ; 
the  country  air  smells  very  good  to  me." 

The  Daleham  station  was  not  very  far  out 
of  the  village,  so  that  Miss  Esther  Porley 


MISS   ESTHER'S   GUEST.  169 

put  on  her  silk  shawl  and  bonnet  and  every 
day  gloves  just  before  four  o'clock  that  af 
ternoon,  and  went  to  meet  her  Country  Week 
guest.  Word  had  come  the  day  before  that 
the  person  for  Miss  Porley's  would  start  two 
days  in  advance  of  the  little  company  of  chil 
dren  and  helpless  women,  and  since  this 
message  had  come  from  the  parsonage  Miss 
Esther  had  worked  diligently,  late  and  early, 
to  have  her  house  in  proper  order.  What 
ever  her  mother  had  liked  was  thought  of  and 
provided.  There  were  going  to  be  rye  short 
cakes  for  tea,  and  there  were  some  sprigs  of 
thyme  and  sweet-balm  in  an  old-fashioned 
wine-glass  on  the  keeping-room  table  ;  mother 
always  said  they  were  so  freshening.  And 
Miss  Esther  had  taken  out  a  little  shoulder- 
shawl  and  folded  it  over  the  arm  of  the  rock 
ing  -  chair  by  the  window  that  looked  out 
into  the  small  garden  where  the  London- 
pride  was  in  full  bloom,  and  the  morning- 
glories  had  just  begun  to  climb.  Miss  Esther 
was  sixty-four  herself,  but  still  looked  upon 
age  as  well  in  the  distance. 

She  was  always  a  prompt  person,  and  had 
some  minutes  to  wait  at  the  station ;  then  the 
time  passed  and  the  train  was  late.  At  last 
she  saw  the  smoke  far  in  the  distance,  and 


170  MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST. 

her  heart  began  to  sink.  Perhaps  she  would 
not  find  it  easy  to  get  on  with  the  old  lady, 
and  —  well  it  was  only  for  a  week,  and  she 
had  thought  it  right  and  best  to  take  such  a 
step,  and  now  it  would  soon  be  over. 

The  train  stopped,  and  there  was  no  old 
lady  at  all. 

Miss  Esther  had  stood  far  back  to  get 
away  from  the  smoke  and  roar,  —  she  was  al 
ways  as  afraid  of  the  cars  as  she  could  be,  — 
but  as  they  moved  away  she  took  a  few  steps 
forward  to  scan  the  platform.  There  was 
no  black  bonnet  with  a  worn  lace  veil,  and 
no  old  lady  with  a  burden  of  bundles  ;  there 
were  only  the  station  master  and  two  or  three 
men,  and  an  idle  boy  or  two,  and  one  clean- 
faced,  bent  old  man  with  a  bird-cage  in  one 
hand  and  an  old  carpet-bag  in  the  other.  She 
thought  of  the  rye  short-cakes  for  supper  and 
all  that  she  had  done  to  make  her  small  home 
pleasant,  and  her  fire  of  excitement  suddenly 
fell  into  ashes. 

The  old  man  with  the  bird-cage  suddenly 
turned  toward  her.  "  Can  you  direct  me  to 
Miss  Esther  Poiiey's  ?  "  said  he. 

"  I  can,"  replied  Miss  Esther,  looking  at 
him  with  curiosity. 

"I  was  directed  to  her  house,"   said  the 


MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST.  17 1 

pleasant  old  fellow,  "  by  Mrs.  Belton,  of  tlie 
Country  Week  Committee.  My  eyesight  is 
poor.  I  should  be  glad  if  anybody  would 
help  me  to  find  the  place." 

"  You  step  this  way  with  me,  sir,"  said  Miss 
Esther.  She  was  afraid  that  the  men  on 
the  platform  heard  every  word  they  said,  but 
nobody  took  particular  notice,  and  off  they 
walked  down  the  road  together.  Miss  Es 
ther  was  enraged  with  the  Country  Week 
Committee. 

"  You  were  sent  to  —  Miss  Porley's  ?  "  she 
asked  grimly,  turning  to  look  at  him. 

"  I  was,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Rill. 

"  I  am  Miss  Porley,  and  I  expected  an  old 
lady,"  she  managed  to  say,  and  they  both 
stopped  and  looked  at  each  other  with  ap 
prehension. 

"  I  do  declare  !  "  faltered  the  old  seal-cut 
ter  anxiously.  "  What  had  I  better  do, 
ma'am  ?  They  most  certain  give  me  your 
name.  May  be  you  could  recommend  me 
somewheres  else,  an'  I  can  get  home  to-mor 
row  if  't  ain't  convenient." 

They  were  standing  under  a  willow-tree  in 
the  shade  ;  Mr.  Rill  took  off  his  heavy  hat,  — 
it  was  a  silk  hat  of  by-gone  shape  ;  a  golden 
robin  began  to  sing,  high  in  the  willow,  and 


172  MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST. 

the  old  bullfinch  twittered  and  chirped  in 
the  cage.  Miss  Esther  heard  some  foofr 
steps  coming  behind  them  along  the  road. 
She  changed  color ;  she  tried  to  remember 
that  she  was  a  woman  of  mature  years  and 
considerable  experience. 

"  'T  ain't  a  mite  o'  matter,  sir,"  she  said 
cheerfully.  "  I  guess  you  '11  find  everything 
comfortable  for  you ;  "  and  they  turned,  much 
relieved,  and  walked  along  together. 

"  That  's  Lawyer  Barstow's  house,"  she 
said  calmly,  a  minute  afterward,  "  the  hand 
somest  place  in  town,  we  think  't  is,"  and  Mr. 
Eill  answered  politely  that  Daleham  was  a 
pretty  place  ;  he  had  not  been  out  of  the  city 
for  so  many  years  that  everything  looked 
beautiful  as  a  picture. 


IV. 


Miss  Porley  rapidly  recovered  her  com 
posure,  and  bent  her  energies  to  the  prepar 
ing  of  an  early  tea.  She  showed  her  guest 
to  the  snug  bedroom  under  the  low  gambrel 
roof,  and  when  she  apologized  for  his  having 
to  go  upstairs,  he  begged  her  to  remember  that 
it  was  nothing  but  a  step  to  a  man  who  was 


MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST.  173 

used  to  four  long  flights.  They  were  both 
excited  at  finding  a  proper  nail  for  the  bird 
cage  outside  the  window,  though  Miss  Es 
ther  said  that  she  should  love  to  have  the 
pretty  bird  downstairs  where  they  could  see 
it  and  hear  it  sing.  She  said  to  herself  over 
and  over  that  if  she  could  have  her  long-lost 
brother  come  home  from  sea,  she  should  like 
to  have  him  look  and  behave  as  gentle  and 
kind  as  Mr.  Rill.  Somehow  she  found  her 
self  singing  a  cheerful  hymn  as  she  mixed  and 
stirred  the  short-cakes.  She  could  not  help 
wishing  that  her  mother  were  there  to  enjoy 
this  surprise,  but  it  did  seem  very  odd,  after 
so  many  years,  to  have  a  man  in  the-  house. 
It  had  not  happened  for  fifteen  years,  at 
least,  when  they  had  entertained  Deacon 
Sparks  and  wife,  delegates  from  the  neigh 
boring  town  of  East  Wilby  to  the  County 
Conference. 

The  neighbors  did  not  laugh  at  Miss  Es 
ther  openly  or  cause  her  to  blush  with  self- 
consciousness,  however  much  they  may  have 
discussed  the  situation  and  smiled  behind 
her  back.  She  took  the  presence  of  her 
guest  with  delighted  simplicity,  and  the 
country  week  was  extended  to  a  fortnight, 
and  then  to  a  month.  At  last,  one  day  Miss 


174  MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST. 

Esther  and  Mr.  Rill  were  seen  on  their  way 
to  the  railroad  station,  with  a  large  bundle 
apiece  beside  the  carpet-bag,  though  some 
one  noticed  that  the  bullfinch  was  left  be 
hind.  Miss  Esther  came  back  alone,  looking 
very  woebegone  and  lonely,  and  if  the  truth 
must  be  known,  she  found  her  house  too  soli 
tary.  She  looked  into  the  woodhouse  where 
there  was  a  great  store  of  kindlings,  neatly 
piled,  and  her  water-pail  was  filled  to  the 
brim,  her  garden-paths  were  clean  of  weeds 
and  swept,  and  yet  everywhere  she  looked  it 
seemed  more  lonely  than  ever.  She  pinned 
on  her  shawl  again  and  went  along  the  street 
to  the  parsonage. 

"  My  old  lady 's  just  gone,"  she  said  to  the 
minister's  wife.  "  I  was  so  lonesome  I  could 
not  stay  in  the  house." 

"  You  found  him  a  very  pleasant  visitor, 
did  n't  you,  Miss  Esther  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Way- 
tori,  laughing  a  little. 

"  I  did  so ;  he  wasn't  like  other  men, — kind 
and  friendly  and  fatherly,  and  never  stayed 
round  when  I  was  occupied,  but  entertained 
himself  down  street  considerable,  an'  was  as 
industrious  as  a  bee,  always  asking  me  if 
there  wa'n't  something  he  could  do  about 
house.  He  and  a  sister  some  years  older 


MISS  ESTHER'S   GUEST.  175 

used  to  keep  house  together,  and  it  was  her 
long  sickness  used  up  what  they  'd  saved, 
and  yet  he  's  got  a  little  somethin',  and  there 
are  friends  he  used  to  work  for,  jewelers,  a 
big  firm,  that  gives  him  somethin'  regular. 
He 's  goin'  to  see," — and  Miss  Esther  blushed 
crimson,  —  "he  's  goin'  to  see  if  they  'd  be 
willin'  to  pay  it  just  the  same  if  he  come  to 
reside  in  Daleham.  He  thinks  the  air  agrees 
with  him  here." 

"  Does  he  indeed  ?  "  inquired  the  minister's 
wife,  with  deep  interest  and  a  look  of  amuse 
ment. 

"  Yes  'm,"  said  Miss  Esther  simply ;  "  but 
don't  you  go  an'  say  nothin'  yet.  I  don't 
want  folks  to  make  a  joke  of  it.  Seems  to 
me  if  he  does  feel  to  come  back,  and  remains 
of  the  same  mind  he  went  away,  we  might  be 
judicious  to  take  the  step  "  — 

"  Why,  Miss  Esther  !  "  exclaimed  the  lis 
tener. 

"  Not  till  fall,  —  not  till  fall,"  said  Miss 
Esther  hastily.  "  I  ain't  going  to  count  on 
it  too  much  anyway.  I  expect  we  could  get 
along ;  there  's  considerable  goodness  left  in 
me,  and  you  can  always  work  better  when 
you  've  got  somebody  beside  yourself  to  work 
for.  There,  now  I  've  told  you  I  feel  as  if 
I  was  blown  away  in  a  gale." 


176  MISS   ESTHER'S    GUEST. 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  at  such 
a  piece  of  news !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Way  ton 
again. 

"  I  don't  know 's  there 's  anything  to  say," 
gravely  answered  Miss  Esther.  "  But  I  did 
laugh  just  now  coming  in  the  gate  to  think 
what  a  twitter  I  got  into  the  day  I  fetched 
you  that  piece  of  paper." 

"  Why,  I  must  go  right  and  tell  Mr. 
Wayton  !  "  said  the  minister's  wife. 

"  Oh,  don't  you,  Mis'  Wayton  ;  no,  no  !  " 
begged  Miss  Esther,  looking  quite  coy  and 
girlish.  "  I  really  don't  know  's  it  's  quite 
settled,  —  it  don't  seem  's  if  it  could  be. 
I  'm  going  to  hear  from  him  in  the  course 
of  a  week.  But  I  suppose  he  thinks  it  's 
settled  ;  he  's  left  the  bird." 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 
I. 

ONE  windy  morning  in  May,  three  old  wo 
men  sat  together  near  an  open  window  in  the 
shed  chamber  of  Byfleet  Poor-house.  The 
wind  was  from  the  northwest,  but  their  win 
dow  faced  the  southeast,  and  they  were  only 
visited  by  an  occasional  pleasant  waft  of 
fresh  air.  They  were  close  together,  knee 
to  knee,  picking  over  a  bushel  of  beans,  and 
commanding  a  view  of  the  dandelion-starred, 
green  yard  below,  and  of  the  winding,  sandy 
road  that  led  to  the  village,  two  miles  away. 
Some  captive  bees  were  scolding  among  the 
cobwebs  of  the  rafters  overhead,  or  thump 
ing  against  the  upper  panes  of  glass  ;  two 
calves  were  bawling  from  the  barnyard, 
where  some  of  the  men  were  at  work  load 
ing  a  dump-cart  and  shouting  as  if  every  one 
were  deaf.  There  was  a  cheerful  feeling  of 
activity,  and  even  an  air  of  comfort,  about 
the  Byfleet  Poor-house.  Almost  every  one 


178       THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

was  possessed  of  a  most  interesting  past, 
though  there  was  less  to  be  said  about  the 
future.  The  inmates  were  by  no  means  dis 
tressed  or  unhappy  ;  many  of  them  retired 
to  this  shelter  only  for  the  winter  season,  and 
would  go  out  presently,  some  to  begin  such 
work  as  they  could  still  do,  others  to  live  in 
their  own  small  houses ;  old  age  had  im 
poverished  most  of  them  by  limiting  their 
power  of  endurance ;  but  far  from  lament 
ing  the  fact  that  they  were  town  charges, 
they  rather  liked  the  change  and  excitement 
of  a  winter  residence  on  the  poor-farm. 
There  was  a  sharp-faced,  hard-worked  young 
widow  with  seven  children,  who  was  an  ex 
ception  to  the  general  level  of  society,  be 
cause  she  deplored  the  change  in  her  for 
tunes.  The  older  women  regarded  her  with 
suspicion,  and  were  apt  to  talk  about  her  in 
moments  like  this,  when  they  happened  to 
sit  together  at  their  work. 

The  three  bean-pickers  were  dressed  alike 
in  stout  brown  ginghams,  checked  by  a  white 
line,  and  all  wore  great  faded  aprons  of  blue 
drilling,  with  sufficient  pockets  convenient 
to  the  right  hand.  Miss  Peggy  Bond  was  a 
very  small,  belligerent-looking  person,  who 
wore  a  huge  pair  of  steel-bowed  spectacles, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.       179 

holding  her  sharp  chin  well  up  in  air,  as  if 
to  supplement  an  inadequate  nose.  She  was 
more  than  half  blind,  but  the  spectacles 
seemed  to  face  upward  instead  of  square 
ahead,  as  if  their  wearer  were  always  on  the 
sharp  lookout  for  birds.  Miss  Bond  had 
suffered  much  personal  damage  from  time  to 
time,  because  she  never  took  heed  where  she 
planted  her  feet,  and  so  was  always  tripping 
and  stubbing  her  bruised  way  through  the 
world.  She  had  fallen  down  hatchways  and 
cellarways,  and  stepped  composedly  into  deep 
ditches  and  pasture  brooks ;  but  she  was 
proud  of  stating  that  she  was  upsighted,  and 
so  was  her  father  before  her.  At  the  poor- 
house,  where  an  unusual  malady  was  consid 
ered  a  distinction,  upsightedness  was  looked 
upon  as  a  most  honorable  infirmity.  Plain 
rheumatism,  such  as  afflicted  Aunt  Lavina 
Dow,  whose  twisted  hands  found  even  this 
light  work  difficult  and  tiresome,  —  plain 
rheumatism  was  something  of  every-day  oc 
currence,  and  nobody  cared  to  hear  about  it. 
Poor  Peggy  was  a  meek  and  friendly  soul, 
who  never  put  herself  forward  ;  she  was  just 
like  other  folks,  as  she  always  loved  to  say, 
but  Mrs.  Lavina  Dow  was  a  different  sort  of 
person  altogether,  of  great  dignity  and,  occa- 


180       THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

sionally,  almost  aggressive  behavior.  The 
time  had  been  when  she  could  do  a  good 
day's  work  with  anybody:  but  for  many 
years  now  she  had  not  left  the  town-farm, 
being  too  badly  crippled  to  work  ;  she  had 
no  relations  or  friends  to  visit,  but  from  an 
innate  love  of  authority  she  could  not  sub 
mit  to  being  one  of  those  who  are  forgotten 
by  the  world.  Mrs.  Dow  was  the  hostess 
and  social  lawgiver  here,  where  she  remem 
bered  every  inmate  and  every  item  of  inter 
est  for  nearly  forty  years,  besides  an  immense 
amount  of  town  history  and  biography  for 
three  or  four  generations  back. 

She  was  the  dear  friend  of  the  third  wo 
man,  Betsey  Lane  ;  together  they  led  thought 
and  opinion  —  chiefly  opinion  —  and  held 
sway,  not  only  over  By  fleet  Poor-farm,  but 
also  the  selectmen  and  all  others  in  authority. 
Betsey  Lane  had  spent  most  of  her  life  as 
aid-in-general  to  the  respected  household  of 
old  General  Thornton.  She  had  been  much 
trusted  and  valued,  and,  at  the  breaking  up 
of  that  once  large  and  flourishing  family,  she 
had  been  left  in  good  circumstances,  what 
with  legacies  and  her  own  comfortable  sav 
ings  ;  but  by  sad  misfortune  and  lavish  gen 
erosity  everything  had  been  scattered,  and 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.      181 

after  much  illness,  which  ended  in  a  stiffened 
arm  and  more  uncertainty,  the  good  soul  had 
sensibly  decided  that  it  was  easier  for  the 
whole  town  to  support  her  than  for  a  part  of 
it.  She  had  always  hoped  to  see  something 
of  the  world  before  she  died  ;  she  came  of  an 
adventurous,  seafaring  stock,  but  had  never 
made  a  longer  journey  than  to  the  towns 
of  Danby  and  Northville,  thirty  miles  away. 

They  were  all  old  women ;  but  Betsey 
Lane,  who  was  sixty-nine,  and  looked  much 
older,  was  the  youngest.  Peggy  Bond  was 
far  on  in  the  seventies,  and  Mrs.  Dow  was 
at  least  ten  years  older.  She  made  a  great 
secret  of  her  years ;  and  as  she  sometimes 
spoke  of  events  prior  to  the  Revolution  with 
the  assertion  of  having  been  an  eye-witness, 
she  naturally  wore  an  air  of  vast  antiquity. 
Her  tales  were  an  inexpressible  delight  to 
Betsey  Lane,  who  felt  younger  by  twenty 
years  because  her  friend  and  comrade  was 
so  unconscious  of  chronological  limitations. 

The  bushel  basket  of  cranberry  beans  was 
within  easy  reach,  and  each  of  the  pickers 
had  filled  her  lap  from  it  again  and  again. 
The  shed  chamber  was  not  an  unpleasant 
place  in  which  to  sit  at  work,  with  its  traces 
of  seed  corn  hanging  from  the  brown  cross- 


182       THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

beams,  its  spare  churns,  and  dusty  loom,  and 
rickety  wool-wheels,  and  a  few  bits  of  old 
furniture.  In  one  far  corner  was  a  wide 
board  of  dismal  use  and  suggestion,  and  close 
beside  it  an  old  cradle.  There  was  a  bat 
tered  chest  of  drawers  where  the  keeper  of 
the  poor-house  kept  his  garden-seeds,  with 
the  withered  remains  of  three  seed  cucum 
bers  ornamenting  the  top.  Nothing  beauti 
ful  could  be  discovered,  nothing  interesting, 
but  there  was  something  usable  and  homely 
about  the  place.  It  was  the  favorite  and  un 
troubled  bower  of  the  bean-pickers,  to  which 
they  might  retreat  unmolested  from  the  pub 
lic  apartments  of  this  rustic  institution. 

Betsey  Lane  blew  away  the  chaff  from  her 
handful  of  beans.  The  spring  breeze  blew 
the  chaff  back  again,  and  sifted  it  over  her 
face  and  shoulders.  She  rubbed  it  out  of 
her  eyes  impatiently,  and  happened  to  notice 
old  Peggy  holding  her  own  handful  high,  as 
if  it  were  an  oblation,  and  turning  her  queer, 
up-tilted  head  this  way  and  that,  to  look  at 
the  beans  sharply,  as  if  she  were  first  cousin 
to  a  hen. 

"  There,  Miss  Bond,  't  is  kind  of  botherin' 
work  for  you,  ain't  it  ? "  Betsey  inquired 
compassionately. 


THE  FLIGHT   OF  BETSEY  LANE.       183 

"  I  feel  to  enjoy  it,  anything  that  I  can 
do  my  own  way  so,"  responded  Peggy.  "I 
like  to  do  my  part.  Ain't  that  old  Mis' 
Fales  comin'  up  the  road?  It  sounds  like 
her  step." 

The  others  looked,  but  they  were  not  far- 
sighted,  and  for  a  moment  Peggy  had  the 
advantage.  Mrs.  Fales  was  not  a  favorite. 

"  I  hope  she  ain't  comin'  here  to  put  up 
this  spring.  I  guess  she  won't  now,  it 's  get- 
tin'  so  late,"  said  Betsey  Lane.  "  She  likes 
to  go  roviii'  soon  as  the  roads  is  settled." 

"  'T  is  Mis'  Fales  !  "  said  Peggy  Bond,  lis 
tening  with  solemn  anxiety.  "There,  do 
let 's  pray  her  by !  " 

"  I  guess  she  's  headin'  for  her  cousin's 
folks  up  Beech  Hill  way,"  said  Betsey  pres 
ently.  "  If  she  'd  left  her  daughter's  this 
mornin',  she  'd  have  got  just  about  as  far  as 
this.  I  kind  o'  wish  she  had  stepped  in 
just  to  pass  the  time  o'  day,  long  's  she  wa'n't 
going  to  make  no  stop." 

There  was  a  silence  as  to  further  speech 
in  the  shed  chamber ;  and  even  the  calves 
were  quiet  in  the  barnyard.  The  men  had 
all  gone  away  to  the  field  where  corn-plant 
ing  was  going  on.  The  beans  clicked  steadily 
into  the  wooden  measure  at  the  pickers'  feet. 


184       THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

Betsey  Lane  began  to  sing  a  hymn,  and  the 
others  joined  in  as  best  they  might,  like 
autumnal  crickets ;  their  voices  were  sharp 
and  cracked,  with  now  and  then  a  few  low 
notes  of  plaintive  tone.  Betsey  herself  could 
sing  pretty  well,  but  the  others  could  only 
make  a  kind  of  accompaniment.  Their 
voices  ceased  altogether  at  the  higher  notes. 

"  Oh  my !  I  wish  I  had  the  means  to  go 
to  the  Centennial,"  mourned  Betsey  Lane, 
stopping  so  suddenly  that  the  others  had  to 
go  on  croaking  and  shrilling  without  her  for 
a  moment  before  they  could  stop.  "  It  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  can't  die  happy  'less  I  do,"  she 
added ;  "  I  ain't  never  seen  nothin'  of  the 
world,  an'  here  I  be." 

"  What  if  you  was  as  old  as  I  be  ?  "  sug 
gested  Mrs.  Dow  pompously.  "  You  've  got 
time  enough  yet,  Betsey ;  don't  you  go  an' 
despair.  I  knowed  of  a  woman  that  went 
clean  round  the  world  four  times  when  she 
was  past  eighty,  an'  enjoyed  herself  real 
well.  Her  folks  followed  the  sea ;  she  had 
three  sons  an'  a  daughter  married,  —  all  ship 
masters,  and  she  'd  been  with  her  own  hus 
band  when  they  was  young.  She  was  left  a 
widder  early,  and  fetched  up  her  family  her 
self, —  a  real  stirrin',  smart  woman.  After 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.      185 

they  'd  got  married  off,  an'  settled,  an'  was 
doing  well,  she  come  to  be  lonesome;  and 
first  she  tried  to  stick  it  out  alone,  but  she 
wa'n't  one  that  could ;  an'  she  got  a  notion 
she  had  n't  nothin'  before  her  but  her  last 
sickness,  and  she  wa'n't  a  person  that  en 
joyed  havin'  other  folks  do  for  her.  So  one 
on  her  boys  —  I  guess  'twas  the  oldest — 
said  he  was  going  to  take  her  to  sea ;  there 
was  ample  room,  an'  he  was  sailin'  a  good 
time  o'  year  for  the  Cape  o'  Good  Hope  an' 
way  iip  to  some  o'  them  tea-ports  in  the 
Chiny  Seas.  She  was  all  high  to  go,  but  it 
made  a  sight  o'  talk  at  her  age ;  an'  the 
minister  made  it  a  subject  o'  prayer  the  last 
Sunday,  and  all  the  folks  took  a  last  leave ; 
but  she  said  to  some  she  'd  fetch  'em  home 
something  real  pritty,  and  so  did.  An'  then 
they  come  home  t'  other  way,  round  the 
Horn,  an'  she  done  so  well,  an'  was  such  a 
sight  o'  company,  the  other  child'n  was 
jealous,  an'  she  promised  she  'd  go  a  v'y'ge 
long  o'  each  on  'em.  She  was  as  sprightly 
a  person  as  ever  I  see ;  an'  could  speak  well 
o'  what  she  'd  seen." 

"  Did  she  die  to  sea  ?  "  asked  Peggy,  with 
interest. 

"No,  she  died  to  home  between  v'y'ges, 


186       THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

or  she  'd  gone  to  sea  again.  I  was  to  her 
funeral.  She  liked  her  son  George's  ship 
the  best ;  't  was  the  one  she  was  going  on  to 
Callao.  They  said  the  men  aboard  all  called 
her  '  gran'ma'am,'  an'  she  kep'  'em  mended 
up,  an'  would  go  below  and  tend  to  'em  if 
they  was  sick.  She  might  'a'  been  alive  an' 
en  joy  in'  of  herself  a  good  many  years  but 
for  the  kick  of  a  cow ;  't  was  a  new  cow  out 
of  a  drove,  a  dreadful  unruly  beast." 

Mrs.  Dow  stopped  for  breath,  and  reached 
down  for  a  new  supply  of  beans ;  her  empty 
apron  was  gray  with  soft  chaff.  Betsey 
Lane,  still  pondering  on  the  Centennial,  be 
gan  to  sing  another  verse  of  her  hymn,  and 
again  the  old  women  joined  her.  At  this 
moment  some  strangers  came  driving  round 
into  the  yard  from  the  front  of  the  house. 
The  turf  was  soft,  and  our  friends  did  not 
hear  the  horses'  steps.  Their  voices  cracked 
and  quavered  ;  it  was  a  funny  little  con 
cert,  and  a  lady  in  an  open  carriage  just  be 
low  listened  with  sympathy  and  amusement. 


II. 

"  Betsey !  Betsey  !  Miss  Lane  !  "  a  voice 
called  eagerly  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  that 


THE  FLIGHT   OF  BETSEY  LANE.       187 

led  up  from  the  shed.  "  Betsey  !  There  's 
a  lady  here  wants  to  see  you  right  away." 

Betsey  was  dazed  with  excitement,  like  a 
country  child  who  knows  the  rare  pleasure 
of  being  called  out  of  school.  "  Lor',  I  ain't 
fit  to  go  down,  be  I?  "  she  faltered,  looking 
anxiously  at  her  friends  ;  but  Peggy  was 
gazing  even  nearer  to  the  zenith  than  usual, 
in  her  excited  effort  to  see  down  into  the 
yard,  and  Mrs.  Dow  only  nodded  somewhat 
jealously,  and  said  that  she  guessed  't  was 
nobody  would  do  her  any  harm.  She  rose 
ponderously,  while  Betsey  hesitated,  being, 
as  they  would  have  said,  all  of  a  twitter. 
"  It  is  a  lady,  certain,"  Mrs.  Dow  assured 
her ;  "  't  ain't  often  there  's  a  lady  comes 
here." 

"  While  there  was  any  of  Mis'  Gen'ral 
Thornton's  folks  left,  I  wa'n't  without  visits 
from  the  gentry,"  said  Betsey  Lane,  turning 
back  proudly  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  with 
a  touch  of  old-world  pride  and  sense  of  high 
station.  Then  she  disappeared,  and  closed 
the  door  behind  her  at  the  stair-foot  with  a 
decision  quite  unwelcome  to  the  friends 
above. 

"  She  need  n't  'a'  been  so  dreadful  'fraid 
anybody  was  goin'  to  listen.  I  guess  we  've 


188       THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

got  folks  to  ride  an'  see  us,  or  had  once,  if 
we  hain't  now,"  said  Miss  Peggy  Bond, 
plaintively. 

"  I  expect  't  was  only  the  wind  shoved  it 
to,"  said  Aunt  Lavina.  "  Betsey  is  one  that 
gits  flustered  easier  than  some.  I  wish 
't  was  somebody  to  take  her  off  an'  give  her 
a  kind  of  a  good  time  ;  she  's  young  to  settle 
down  'long  of  old  folks  like  us.  Betsey  's 
got  a  notion  o'  rovin'  such  as  ain't  my  na- 
tur',  but  I  should  like  to  see  her  satisfied. 
She  'd  been  a  very  understandin'  person,  if 
she  had  the  advantages  that  some  does." 

"  'T  is  so,"  said  Peggy  Bond,  tilting  her 
chin  high.  "  I  suppose  you  can't  hear  nothin' 
they're  saying?  I  feel  my  hearin'  ain't 
up  to  whar  it  was.  I  can  hear  things  close 
to  me  well  as  ever ;  but  there,  hearin'  ain't 
everything ;  't  ain't  as  if  we  lived  where 
there  was  more  goin'  on  to  hear.  Seems  to 
me  them  folks  is  stoppin'  a  good  while." 

"  They  surely  be,"  agreed  Lavina  Dow. 

"  I  expect  it  's  somethin'  particular. 
There  ain't  none  of  the  Thornton  folks  left, 
except  one  o'  the  gran'darters,  an'  I  've  often 
heard  Betsey  remark  that  she  should  never 
see  her  more,  for  she  lives  to  London. 
Strange  how  folks  feels  contented  in  them 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.       189 

strayaway  places  off  to  the  ends  of  the 
airth." 

The  flies  and  bees  were  buzzing  against 
the  hot  window-panes  ;  the  handf  uls  of  beans 
were  clicking  into  the  brown  wooden  mea 
sure.  A  bird  came  and  perched  on  the  win 
dow-sill,  and  then  flitted  away  toward  the 
blue  sky.  Below,  in  the  yard,  Betsey  Lane 
stood  talking  with  the  lady.  She  had  put 
her  blue  drilling  apron  over  her  head,  and 
her  face  was  shining  with  delight. 

"  Lor',  dear,"  she  said,  for  at  least  the 
third  time,  "  I  remember  ye  when  I  first  see 
ye ;  an  awful  pritty  baby  you  was,  an'  they 
all  said  you  looked  just  like  the  old  gen'ral. 
Be  you  goin'  back  to  foreign  parts  right 
away?  " 

"  Yes,  I  'm  going  back ;  you  know  that 
all  my  children  are  there.  I  wish  I  could 
take  you  with  me  for  a  visit,"  said  the 
charming  young  guest.  "  I  'm  going  to 
carry  over  some  of  the  pictures  and  furni 
ture  from  the  old  house  ;  I  did  n't  care  half 
so  much  for  them  when  I  was  younger  as  I 
do  now.  Perhaps  next  summer  we  shall  all 
come  over  for  a  while.  I  should  like  to  see 
my  girls  and  boys  playing  under  the  pines." 

"  I  wish  you  re'lly  was  livin'  to  the  old 


190       THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

place,"  said  Betsey  Lane.  Her  imagination 
was  not  swift;  she  needed  time  to  think 
over  all  that  was  being  told  her,  and  she 
could  not  fancy  the  two  strange  houses 
across  the  sea.  The  old  Thornton  house 
was  to  her  mind  the  most  delightful  and 
elegant  in  the  world. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Strafford  kindly,  —  "  anything 
that  I  can  do  for  you  myself,  before  I  go 
away  ?  I  shall  be  writing  to  you,  and  send 
ing  some  pictures  of  the  children,  and  you 
must  let  me  know  how  you  are  getting  on." 

"  Yes,  there  is  one  thing,  darlin'.  If  you 
could  stop  in  the  village  an'  pick  me  out  a 
pritty,  little,  small  lookin '-glass,  that  I  can 
keep  for  my  own  an'  have  to  remember  you 
by.  'T  ain't  that  I  want  to  set  me  above  the 
rest  o'  the  folks,  but  I  was  always  used  to 
havin'  my  own  when  I  was  to  your  grandma's. 
There  's  very  nice  folks  here,  some  on  'em, 
and  I  'm  better  off  than  if  I  was  able  to 
keep  house  ;  but  seiice  you  ask  me,  that 's 
the  only  thing  I  feel  cropin'  about.  What 
be  you  goin'  right  back  for  ?  ain't  you  goin' 
to  see  the  great  fair  to  Pheladelphy,  that 
everybody  talks  about  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Strafford,  laughing   at 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.       191 

this  eager  and  almost  convicting  question. 
"  No  ;  I  'm  going  back  next  week.  If  I 
were,  I  believe  that  I  should  take  you  with 
me.  Good-by,  dear  old  Betsey  ;  you  make 
me  feel  as  if  I  were  a  little  girl  again  ;  you 
look  just  the  same." 

For  full  five  minutes  the  old  woman  stood 
out  in  the  sunshine,  dazed  with  delight,  and 
majestic  with  a  sense  of  her  own  conse 
quence.  She  held  something  tight  in  her 
hand,  without  thinking  what  it  might  be ; 
but  just  as  the  friendly  mistress  of  the  poor- 
farm  came  out  to  hear  the  news,  she  tucked 
the  roll  of  money  into  the  bosom  of  her 
brown  gingham  dress.  "  'T  was  my  dear 
Mis'  Katy  Strafford,"  she  turned  to  say 
proudly.  "  She  come  way  over  from  Lon 
don  ;  she  's  been  sick ;  they  thought  the  voy 
age  would  do  her  good.  She  said  most  the 
first  thing  she  had  on  her  mind  was  to  come 
an'  find  me,  and  see  how  I  was,  an'  if  I  was 
comfortable  ;  an'  now  she  's  goin'  right  back. 
She  's  got  two  splendid  houses ;  an'  said 
how  she  wished  I  was  there  to  look  after 
things,  —  she  remembered  I  was  always  her 
graii'ma's  right  hand.  Oh,  it  does  so  carry 
me  back,  to  see  her  !  Seems  if  all  the  rest 
on  'em  must  be  there  together  to  the  old 


192       THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

house.     There,  I  must  go  right  up  an'  tell 
Mis'  Dow  an'  Peggy." 

"  Dinner  's  all  ready  ;  I  was  just  goin'  to 
blow  the  horn  for  the  men-folks,"  said  the 
keeper's  wife.  "  They  '11  be  right  down.  I 
expect  you  've  got  along  smart  with  them 
beans,  —  all  three  of  you  together  ;  "  but 
Betsey's  mind  roved  so  high  and  so  far  at 
that  moment  that  no  achievements  of  bean- 
picking  could  lure  it  back. 


III. 

The  long  table  in  the  great  kitchen  soon 
gathered  its  company  of  waifs  and  strays,  — 
creatures  of  improvidence  and  misfortune, 
and  the  irreparable  victims  of  old  age.  The 
dinner  was  satisfactory,  and  there  was  not 
much  delay  for  conversation.  Peggy  Bond 
and  Mrs.  Dow  and  Betsey  Lane  always  sat 
together  at  one  end,  with  an  air  of  putting 
the  rest  of  the  company  below  the  salt. 
Betsey  was  still  flushed  with  excitement ;  in 
fact,  she  could  not  eat  as  much  as  usual,  and 
she  looked  up  from  time  to  time  expectantly, 
as  if  she  were  likely  to  be  asked  to  speak  of 
her  guest ;  but  everybody  was  hungry,  and 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.       193 

even  Mrs.  Dow  broke  in  upon  some  attempted 
confidences  by  asking  inopportunely  for  a 
second  potato.  There  were  nearly  twenty 
at  the  table,  counting  the  keeper  and  his 
wife  and  two  children,  noisy  little  persons 
who  had  come  from  school  with  the  small 
flock  belonging  to  the  poor  widow,  who  sat 
just  opposite  our  friends.  She  finished  her 
dinner  before  any  one  else,  and  pushed  her 
chair  back ;  she  always  helped  with  the 
housework,  —  a  thin,  sorry,  bad-tempered- 
looking  poor  soul,  whom  grief  had  sharpened 
instead  of  softening.  "  I  expect  you  feel  too 
fine  to  set  with  common  folks,"  she  said  en 
viously  to  Betsey. 

"  Here  I  be  a-settm',"  responded  Betsey 
calmly.  "  I  don'  know  's  I  behave  more  un- 
becomin'  than  usual."  Betsey  prided  her 
self  upon  her  good  and  proper  manners  ;  but 
the  rest  of  the  company,  who  would  have 
liked  to  hear  the  bit  of  morning  news,  were 
now  defrauded  of  that  pleasure.  The  wrong 
note  had  been  struck;  there  was  a  silence 
after  the  clatter  of  knives  and  plates,  and  one 
by  one  the  cheerful  town  charges  disappeared. 
The  bean-picking  had  been  finished,  and 
there  was  a  call  for  any  of  the  women  who 
felt  like  planting  corn ;  so  Peggy  Bond,  who 


194       THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

could  follow  the  line  of  lulls  pretty  fairly, 
and  Betsey  herself,  who  was  still  equal  to 
anybody  at  that  work,  and  Mrs.  Dow,  all 
went  out  to  the  field  together.  Aunt  La- 
vina  labored  slowly  up  the  yard,  carrying  a 
light  splint-bottomed  kitchen  chair  and  her 
knitting-work,  and  sat  near  the  stone  wall 
on  a  gentle  rise,  where  she  could  see  the  pond 
and  the  green  country,  and  exchange  a  word 
with  her  friends  as  they  came  and  went  up 
and  down  the  rows.  Betsey  vouchsafed  a 
word  now  and  then  about  Mrs.  Stratford,  but 
you  would  have  thought  that  she  had  been 
suddenly  elevated  to  Mrs.  Stratford's  own 
cares  and  the  responsibilities  attending  them, 
and  had  little  in  common  with  her  old  as 
sociates.  Mrs.  Dow  and  Peggy  knew  well 
that  these  high-feeling  times  never  lasted 
long,  and  so  they  waited  with  as  much  pa 
tience  as  they  could  muster.  They  were  by 
no  means  without  that  true  tact  which  is 
only  another  word  for  unselfish  sympathy. 

The  strip  of  corn  land  ran  along  the  side 
of  a  great  field  ;  at  the  upper  end  of  it  was 
a  field-corner  thicket  of  young  maples  and 
walnut  saplings,  the  children  of  a  great  nut- 
tree  that  marked  the  boundary.  Once,  when 
Betsey  Lane  found  herself  alone  near  this 


THE  FLIGHT   OF  BETSEY  LANE.       195 

shelter  at  the  end  of  her  row,  the  other  plant 
ers  having  lagged  behind  beyond  the  rising 
ground,  she  looked  stealthily  about,  and  then 
put  her  hand  inside  her  gown,  and  for  the 
first  time  took  out  the  money  that  Mrs. 
Strafford  had  given  her.  She  turned  it  over 
and  over  with  an  astonished  look:  there 
were  new  bank-bills  for  a  hundred  dollars. 
Betsey  gave  a  funny  little  shrug  of  her 
shoulders,  came  out  of  the  bushes,  and  took 
a  step  or  two  on  the  narrow  edge  of  turf, 
as  if  she  were  going  to  dance ;  then  she  has 
tily  tucked  away  her  treasure,  and  stepped 
discreetly  down  into  the  soft  harrowed  and 
hoed  land,  and  began  to  drop  corn  again, 
five  kernels  to  a  hill.  She  had  seen  the  top 
of  Peggy  Bond's  head  over  the  knoll,  and 
now  Peggy  herself  came  entirely  into  view, 
gazing  upward  to  the  skies,  and  stumbling 
more  or  less,  but  counting  the  corn  by  touch 
and  twisting  her  head  about  anxiously  to 
gain  advantage  over  her  uncertain  vision. 
Betsey  made  a  friendly,  inarticulate  little 
sound  as  they  passed  ;  she  was  thinking  that 
somebody  said  once  that  Peggy's  eyesight 
might  be  remedied  if  she  could  go  to  Boston 
to  the  hospital ;  but  that  was  so  remote  and 
impossible  an  undertaking  that  no  one  had 


196       THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

ever  taken  the  first  step.  Betsey  Lane's 
brown  old  face  suddenly  worked  with  excite 
ment,  but  in  a  moment  more  she  regained 
her  usual  firm  expression,  and  spoke  care 
lessly  to  Peggy  as  she  turned  and  came 
alongside. 

The  high  spring  wind  of  the  morning  had 
quite  fallen  ;  it  was  a  lovely  May  afternoon. 
The  woods  about  the  field  to  the  northward 
were  full  of  birds,  and  the  young  leaves 
scarcely  hid  the  solemn  shapes  of  a  company 
of  crows  that  patiently  attended  the  corn- 
planting.  Two  of  the  men  had  finished 
their  hoeing,  and  were  busy  with  the  con 
struction  of  a  scarecrow ;  they  knelt  in  the 
furrows,  chuckling,  and  looking  over  some 
forlorn,  discarded  garments.  It  was  a  time- 
honored  custom  to  make  the  scarecrow  re 
semble  one  of  the  poor-house  family  ;  and 
this  year  they  intended  to  have  Mrs.  Lavina 
Dow  protect  the  field  in  effigy  ;  last  year  it 
was  the  counterfeit  of  Betsey  Lane  who  stood 
on  guard,  with  an  easily  recognized  quilted 
hood  and  the  remains  of  a  valued  shawl 
that  one  of  the  calves  had  found  airing  on 
a  fence  and  chewed  to  pieces.  Behind  the 
men  was  the  foundation  for  this  rustic  at 
tempt  at  statuary,  —  an  upright  stake  and 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.       197 

bar  iii  the  form  of  a  cross.  This  stood  on 
the  highest  part  of  the  field;  and  as  the 
men  knelt  near  it,  and  the  quaint  figures  of 
the  corn-planters  went  and  came,  the  scene 
gave  a  curious  suggestion  of  foreign  life. 
It  was  not  like  New  England ;  the  presence 
of  the  rude  cross  appealed  strangely  to  the 
imagination. 


IV. 


Life  flowed  so  smoothly,  for  the  most  part, 
at  the  Byfleet  Poor-farm,  that  nobody  knew 
what  to  make,  later  in  the  summer,  of  a 
strange  disappearance.  All  the  elder  in 
mates  were  familiar  with  illness  and  death, 
and  the  poor  pomp  of  a  town-pauper's  fu 
neral.  The  comings  and  goings  and  the 
various  misfortunes  of  those  who  composed 
this  strange  family,  related  only  through  its 
disasters,  hardly  served  for  the  excitement 
and  talk  of  a  single  day.  Now  that  the 
June  days  were  at  their  longest,  the  old 
people  were  sure  to  wake  earlier  than  ever ; 
but  one  morning,  to  the  astonishment  of 
every  one,  Betsey  Lane's  bed  was  empty; 
the  sheets  and  blankets,  which  were  her  own, 
and  guarded  with  jealous  care,  were  care- 


198        THE  FLIGHT   OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

fully  folded  and  placed  on  a  chair  not  too 
near  the  window,  and  Betsey  had  flown. 
Nobody  had  heard  her  go  down  the  creaking 
stairs.  The  kitchen  door  was  unlocked, 
and  the  old  watch-dog  lay  on  the  step  out 
side  in  the  early  sunshine,  wagging  his  tail 
and  looking  wise,  as  if  he  were  left  on  guard 
and  meant  to  keep  the  fugitive's  secret. 

"Never  knowed  her  to  do  nothin'  afore 
'thout  talking  it  over  a  fortnight,  and  pa- 
radin'  off  when  we  could  all  see  her,"  ven 
tured  a  spiteful  voice.  "  Guess  we  can  wait 
till  night  to  hear  'bout  it." 

Mrs.  Dow  looked  sorrowful  and  shook  her 
head.  "  Betsey  had  an  aunt  on  her  mother's 
side  that  went  and  drownded  of  herself ; 
she  was  a  pritty-appearing  woman  as  ever 
you  see." 

"  Perhaps  she 's  gone  to  spend  the  day 
with  Decker's  folks,"  suggested  Peggy  Bond. 
"  She  always  takes  an  extra  early  start ;  she 
was  speakin'  lately  o'  going  up  their  way  ;  " 
but  Mrs.  Dow  shook  her  head  with  a  most 
melancholy  look.  "  I  'm  impressed  that 
something  's  befell  her,"  she  insisted.  "  I 
heard  her  a-groanin'  in  her  sleep.  I  was 
wakeful  the  forepart  o'  the  night,  —  't  is  very 
unusual  with  me,  too." 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.       199 

'"  'T  wa'n't  like  Betsey  not  to  leave  us  any 
word,"  said  the  other  old  friend,  with  more 
resentment  than  melancholy.  They  sat  to 
gether  almost  in  silence  that  morning  in  the 
shed  chamber.  Mrs.  Dow  was  sorting  and 
cutting  rags,  and  Peggy  braided  them  into 
long  ropes,  to  be  made  into  mats  at  a  later 
date.  If  they  had  only  known  where  Betsey 
Lane  had  gone,  they  might  have  talked  about 
it  until  dinner  -  time  at  noon  ;  but  failing 
this  new  subject,  they  could  take  no  interest 
in  any  of  their  old  ones.  Out  in  the  field 
the  corn  was  well  up,  and  the  men  were  hoe 
ing.  It  was  a  hot  morning  in  the  shed 
chamber,  and  the  woolen  rags  were  dusty 
and  hot  to  handle. 


V. 

Byfleet  people  knew  each  other  well,  and 
when  this  mysteriously  absent  person  did 
not  return  to  the  town-farm  at  the  end  of 
a  week,  public  interest  became  much  ex 
cited  ;  and  presently  it  was  ascertained  that 
Betsey  Lane  was  neither  making  a  visit  to 
her  friends  the  Deckers  on  Birch  Hill,  nor 
to  any  nearer  acquaintances  ;  in  fact,  she  had 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE, 

disappeared  altogether  from  her  wonted 
haunts.  Nobody  remembered  to  have  seen 
her  pass,  hers  had  been  such  an  early  flitting  ; 
and  when  somebody  thought  of  her  having 
gone  away  by  train,  he  was  laughed  at  for 
forgetting  that  the  earliest  morning  train 
from  South  Byfleet,  the  nearest  station,  did 
not  start  until  long  after  eight  o'clock  ;  and 
if  Betsey  had  designed  to  be  one  of  the 
passengers,  she  would  have  started  along  the 
road  at  seven,  and  been  seen  and  known  of 
all  women.  There  was  not  a  kitchen  in  that 
part  of  Byfleet  that  did  not  have  windows 
toward  the  road.  Conversation  rarely  left 
the  level  of  the  neighborhood  gossip :  to  see 
Betsey  Lane,  in  her  best  clothes,  at  that  hour 
in  the  morning,  would  have  been  the  signal 
for  much  exercise  of  imagination  ;  but  as 
day  after  day  went  by  without  news,  the 
curiosity  of  those  who  knew  her  best  turned 
slowly  into  fear,  and  at  last  Peggy  Bond 
again  gave  utterance  to  the  belief  that  Betsey 
had  either  gone  out  in  the  early  morning 
and  put  an  end  to  her  life,  or  that  she  had 
gone  to  the  Centennial.  Some  of  the  people 
at  table  were  moved  to  loud  laughter,  —  it 
was  at  supper-time  on  a  Sunday  night,  —  but 
others  listened  with  great  interest. 


THE  FLIGHT   OF  BETSEY  LANE.       201 

"  She  never  'd  put  on  her  good  clothes  to 
drownd  herself,"  said  the  widow.  "  She 
might  have  thought  't  was  good  as  takin'  'em 
with  her,  though.  Old  folks  has  wandered 
off  an'  got  lost  in  the  woods  afore  now." 

Mrs.  Dow  and  Peggy  resented  this  im 
pertinent  remark,  but  deigned  to  take  no 
notice  of  the  speaker.  "  She  would  n't  have 
wore  her  best  clothes  to  the  Centennial, 
would  she  ?  "  mildly  inquired  Peggy,  bobbing 
her  head  toward  the  ceiling.  "  'T  would 
be  a  shame  to  spoil  your  best  things  in  such 
a  place.  An'  I  don't  know  of  her  havin' 
any  money ;  there  's  the  end  o'  that." 

"  You  're  bad  as  old  Mis'  Bland,  that  used 
to  live  neighbor  to  our  folks,"  said  one  of  the 
old  men.  "  She  was  dreadful  precise ;  an' 
she  so  begretched  to  wear  a  good  alapaca 
dress  that  was  left  to  her,  that  it  hung  in  a 
press  forty  year,  an'  baited  the  moths  at 
last." 

"  I  often  seen  Mis'  Bland  a-goiii'  in  to 
meetin'  when  I  was  a  young  girl,"  said 
Peggy  Bond  approvingly.  "  She  was  a 
good-appearin'  woman,  an'  she  left  property." 

"  Wish  she  'd  left  it  to  me,  then,"  said 
the  poor  soul  opposite,  glancing  at  her  pa 
thetic  row  of  children:  but  it  was  not  good 


202        THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

manners  at  the  farm  to  deplore  one's  situa 
tion,  and  Mrs.  Dow  and  Peggy  only  frowned. 
"  Where  do  you  suppose  Betsey  can  be  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Dow,  for  the  twentieth  time. 
"  She  did  n't  have  no  money.  I  know  she 
ain't  gone  far,  if  it 's  so  that  she  's  yet  alive. 
She  's  b'en  real  pinched  all  the  spring." 

"  Perhaps  that  lady  that  come  one  day 
give  her  some,"  the  keeper's  wife  suggested 
mildly. 

"  Then  Betsey  would  have  told  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Dow,  with  injured  dignity. 


VI. 


On  the  morning  of  her  disappearance, 
Betsey  rose  even  before  the  pewee  and  the 
English  sparrow,  and  dressed  herself  quietly, 
though  with  trembling  hands,  and  stole  out 
of  the  kitchen  door  like  a  plunderless  thief. 
The  old  dog  licked  her  hand  and  looked  at 
her  anxiously  ;  the  tortoise-shell  cat  rubbed 
against  her  best  gown,  and  trotted  away  up 
the  yard,  then  she  turned  anxiously  and 
came  after  the  old  woman,  following  faith 
fully  until  she  had  to  be  driven  back. 
Betsey  was  used  to  long  country  excursions 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.      203 

afoot.  She  dearly  loved  the  early  morn 
ing  ;  and  finding  that  there  was  no  dew 
to  trouble  her,  she  began  to  follow  pasture 
paths  and  short  cuts  across  the  fields,  sur 
prising  here  and  there  a  flock  of  sleepy 
sheep,  or  a  startled  calf  that  rustled  out  from 
the  bushes.  The  birds  were  pecking  their 
breakfast  from  bush  and  turf ;  and  hardly 
any  of  the  wild  inhabitants  of  that  rural 
world  were  enough  alarmed  by  her  presence 
to  do  more  than  flutter  away  if  they  chanced 
to  be  in  her  path.  She  stepped  along,  light- 
footed  and  eager  as  a  girl,  dressed  in  her 
neat  old  straw  bonnet  and  black  gown,  and 
carrying  a  few  belongings  in  her  best  bundle- 
handkerchief,  one  that  her  only  brother  had 
brought  home  from  the  East  Indies  fifty 
years  before.  There  was  an  old  crow  perched 
as  sentinel  on  a  small,  dead  pine-tree,  where 
he  could  warn  friends  who  were  pulling  up 
the  sprouted  corn  in  a  field  close  by  ;  but  he 
only  gave  a  contemptuous  caw  as  the  adven 
turer  appeared,  and  she  shook  her  bundle 
at  him  in  revenge,  and  laughed  to  see  him  so 
clumsy  as  he  tried  to  keep  his  footing  on  the 
twigs. 

"  Yes,    I   be,"  she  assured    him.     "  I  'm 
a-goin'  to  Pheladelphy,  to  the  Centennial, 


204        THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

same  's  other  folks.  I  'd  jest  as  soon  tell 
ye  's  not,  old  crow ;  "  and  Betsey  laughed 
aloud  in  pleased  content  with  herself  and 
her  daring,  as  she  walked  along.  She  had 
only  two  miles  to  go  to  the  station  at  South 
Byfleet,  and  she  felt  for  the  money  now  and 
then,  and  found  it  safe  enough.  She  took 
great  pride  in  the  success  of  her  escape,  and 
especially  in  the  long  concealment  of  her 
wealth.  Not  a  night  had  passed  since  Mrs. 
Straff ord's  visit  that  she  had  not  slept  with 
the  roll  of  money  under  her  pillow  by  night, 
and  buttoned  safe  inside  her  dress  by  day. 
She  knew  that  everybody  would  offer  advice 
and  even  commands  about  the  spending  or 
saving  of  it ;  and  she  brooked  no  interference. 
The  last  mile  of  the  foot-path  to  South 
Byfleet  was  along  the  railway  track ;  and 
Betsey  began  to  feel  in  haste,  though  it  was 
still  nearly  two  hours  to  train  time.  She 
looked  anxiously  forward  and  back  along  the 
rails  every  few  minutes,  for  fear  of  being  run 
over  ;  and  at  last  she  caught  sight  of  an 
engine  that  was  apparently  coming  toward 
her,  and  took  flight  into  the  woods  before 
she  could  gather  courage  to  follow  the  path 
again.  The  freight  train  proved  to  be  at  a 
standstill,  waiting  at  a  turnout ;  and  some 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.       205 

of  the  men  were  straying  about,  eating  their 
early  breakfast  comfortably  in  this  time  of 
leisure.  As  the  old  woman  came  up  to  them, 
she  stopped  too,  for  a  moment  of  rest  and 
conversation. 

"  Where  be  ye  goin'  ?  "  she  asked  pleas 
antly;  and  they  told  her.  It  was  to  the 
town  where  she  had  to  change  cars  and  take 
the  great  through  train  ;  a  point  of  geography 
which  she  had  learned  from  evening  talks 
between  the  men  at  the  farm. 

"  What  '11  ye  carry  me  there  for  ?  " 

"  We  don't  run  no  passenger  cars,"  said 
one  of  the  young  fellows,  laughing.  "  What 
makes  you  in  such  a  hurry  ?  " 

"  I  'm  startin'  for  Pheladelphy,  an'  it 's  a 
gre't  ways  to  go." 

"  So  't  is  ;  but  you  're  consid'able  early, 
if  you  're  makin'  for  the  eight-forty  train. 
See  here  !  you  have  n't  got  a  needle  an' 
thread  'long  of  you  in  that  bundle,  have 
you  ?  If  you  '11  sew  me  on  a  couple  o5  but 
tons,  I  '11  give  ye  a  free  ride.  I  'm  in  a 
sight  o'  distress,  an'  none  o'  the  fellows  is 
provided  with  as  much  as  a  bent  pin." 

"  You  poor  boy  !  I  '11  have  you  seen  to, 
in  half  a  minute.  I  'm  troubled  with  a  stiff 
arm,  but  I  '11  do  the  best  I  can." 


206        THE  FLIGHT   OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

The  obliging  Betsey  seated  herself  stiffly 
on  the  slope  of  the  embankment,  and  found 
her  thread  and  needle  with  utmost  haste. 
Two  of  the  train-men  stood  by  and  watched 
the  careful  stitches,  and  even  offered  her  a 
place  as  spare  brakeman,  so  that  they  might 
keep  her  near  ;  and  Betsey  took  the  offer 
with  considerable  seriousness,  only  thinking 
it  necessary  to  assure  them  that  she  was 
getting  most  too  old  to  be  out  in  all  weath 
ers.  An  express  went  by  like  an  earth 
quake,  and  she  was  presently  hoisted  on 
board  an  empty  box-car  by  two  of  her  new 
and  flattering  acquaintances,  and  found  her 
self  before  noon  at  the  end  of  the  first 
stage  of  her  journey,  without  having  spent 
a  cent,  and  furnished  with  any  amount  of 
thrifty  advice.  One  of  the  young  men,  be 
ing  compassionate  of  her  unprotected  state 
as  a  traveler,  advised  her  to  find  out  the 
widow  of  an  uncle  of  his  in  Philadelphia, 
saying  despairingly  that  he  could  n't  tell  her 
just  how  to  find  the  house ;  but  Miss  Bet 
sey  Lane  said  that  she  had  an  English 
tongue  in  her  head,  and  should  be  sure  to 
find  whatever  she  was  looking  for.  This 
unexpected  incident  of  the  freight  train 
was  the  reason  why  everybody  about  the 


THE   FLIGHT   OF  BETSEY  LANE.       207 

South  Byfleet  station  insisted  that  no  such 
person  had  taken  passage  by  the  regular 
train  that  same  morning,  and  why  there 
were  those  who  persuaded  themselves  that 
Miss  Betsey  Lane  was  probably  lying  at 
the  bottom  of  the  poor-farm  pond. 


VII. 

"  Land  sakes  !  "  said  Miss  Betsey  Lane, 
as  she  watched  a  Turkish  person  parading 
by  in  his  red  fez,  "  I  call  the  Centennial 
somethin'  like  the  day  o'  judgment !  I  wish 
I  was  goin'  to  stop  a  month,  but  I  dare  say 
'twould  be  the  death  o'  my  poor  old  bones." 

She  was  leaning  against  the  barrier  of  a 
patent  pop -corn  establishment,  which  had 
given  her  a  sudden  reminder  of  home,  and 
of  the  winter  nights  when  the  sharp-kerneled 
little  red  and  yellow  ears  were  brought  out, 
and  Old  Uncle  Eph  Flanders  sat  by  the 
kitchen  stove,  and  solemnly  filled  a  great 
wooden  chopping  -  tray  for  the  refreshment 
of  the  company.  She  had  wandered  and 
loitered  and  looked  until  her  eyes  and 
head  had  grown  numb  and  unreceptive ;  but 
it  is  only  unimaginative  persons  who  can 


208        THE   FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

be  really  astonished.  The  imagination  can 
always  outrun  the  possible  and  actual  sights 
and  sounds  of  the  world  ;  and  this  plain  old 
body  from  Byfleet  rarely  found  anything 
rich  and  splendid  enough  to  surprise  her. 
She  saw  the  wonders  of  the  West  and  the 
splendors  of  the  East  with  equal  calmness 
and  satisfaction ;  she  had  always  known 
that  there  was  an  amazing  world  outside 
the  boundaries  of  Byfleet.  There  was  a 
piece  of  paper  in  her  pocket  on  which  was 
marked,  in  her  clumsy  handwriting,  "  If 
Betsey  Lane  should  meet  with  accident,  no 
tify  the  selectmen  of  Byfleet;  "  but  having 
made  this  slight  provision  for  the  future, 
she  had  thrown  herself  boldly  into  the  sea  of 
strangers,  and  then  had  made  the  joyful 
discovery  that  friends  were  to  be  found  at 
every  turn. 

There  was  something  delightfully  com 
panionable  about  Betsey  ;  she  had  a  way  of 
suddenly  looking  up  over  her  big  spectacles 
with  a  reassuring  and  expectant  smile,  as  if 
you  were  going  to  speak  to  her,  and  you 
generally  did.  She  must  have  found  out 
where  hundreds  of  people  came  from,  and 
whom  they  had  left  at  home,  and  what  they 
thought  of  the  great  show,  as  she  sat  on  a 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.       209 

bench  to  rest,  or  leaned  over  the  railings 
where  free  luncheons  were  afforded  by  the 
makers  of  hot  waffles  and  molasses  candy 
and  fried  potatoes ;  and  there  was  not  a 
night  when  she  did  not  return  to  her  lodg 
ings  with  a  pocket  crammed  with  samples  of 
spool  cotton  and  nobody  knows  what.  She 
had  already  collected  small  presents  for  al 
most  everybody  she  knew  at  home,  and  she 
was  such  a  pleasant,  beaming  old  country 
body,  so  unmistakably  appreciative  and  inter 
ested,  that  nobody  ever  thought  of  wishing 
that  she  would  move  on.  Nearly  all  the 
busy  people  of  the  Exhibition  called  her 
either  Aunty  or  Grandma  at  once,  and  made 
little  pleasures  for  her  as  best  they  could. 
She  was  a  delightful  contrast  to  the  indiffer 
ent,  stupid  crowd  that  drifted  along,  with 
eyes  fixed  at  the  same  level,  and  seeing, 
even  on  that  level,  nothing  for  fifty  feet  at  a 
time.  "  What  be  you  making  here,  dear  ?  " 
Betsey  Lane  would  ask  joyfully,  and  the 
most  perfunctory  guardian  hastened  to  ex 
plain.  She  squandered  money  as  she  had 
never  had  the  pleasure  of  doing  before,  and 
this  hastened  the  day  when  she  must  return 
to  Byfleet.  She  was  always  inquiring  if 
there  were  any  spectacle-sellers  at  hand,  and 


210        THE  FLIGHT   OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

received  occasional  directions  ;  but  it  was  a 
difficult  place  for  her  to  find  her  way  about 
in,  and  the  very  last  day  of  her  stay  arrived 
before  she  found  an  exhibitor  of  the  desired 
sort,  an  oculist  and  instrument-maker. 

"  I  called  to  get  some  specs  for  a  friend 
that  's  upsighted,"  she  gravely  informed  the 
salesman,  to  his  extreme  amusement.  "  She  's 
dreadful  troubled,  and  jerks  her  head  up 
like  a  hen  a-drinkin'.  She 's  got  a  blur 
a-growin'  an'  spreadin',  an'  sometimes  she 
can  see  out  to  one  side  on  't,  and  more  times 
she  can't." 

"  Cataracts,"  said  a  middle-aged  gentle 
man  at  her  side ;  and  Betsey  Lane  turned 
to  regard  him  with  approval  and  curiosity. 

"  'T  is  Miss  Peggy  Bond  I  was  mention 
ing,  of  Byfleet  Poor-farm,"  she  explained. 
"  I  count  on  gettin'  some  glasses  to  relieve 
her  trouble,  if  there  's  any  to  be  found." 

"  Glasses  won't  do  her  any  good,"  said 
the  stranger.  "  Suppose  you  come  and  sit 
down  on  this  bench,  and  tell  me  all  about  it. 
First,  where  is  Byfleet  ?  "  and  Betsey  gave 
the  directions  at  length. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  the  surgeon.  "  How 
old  is  this  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

Betsey  cleared  her  throat  decisively,  and 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.       211 

smoothed  her  gown  over  her  knees  as  if  it 
were  an  apron  ;  then  she  turned  to  take  a 
good  look  at  her  new  acquaintance  as  they 
sat  on  the  rustic  bench  together.  "  Who  be 
you,  sir,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  "  she  asked, 
in  a  friendly  tone. 

"  My  name  's  Dunster." 

"  I  take  it  you  're  a  doctor,"  continued 
Betsey,  as  if  they  had  overtaken  each  other 
walking  from  Byfleet  to  South  Byfleet  on  a 
summer  morning. 

"  I  'm  a  doctor ;  part  of  one  at  least," 
said  he.  "  I  know  more  or  less  about  eyes  ; 
and  I  spend  my  summers  down  on  the  shore 
at  the  mouth  of  your  river ;  some  day  I  '11 
come  up  and  look  at  this  person.  How  old 
is  she?" 

"  Peggy  Bond  is  one  that  never  tells  her 
age ;  't  ain't  come  quite  up  to  where  she  '11 
begin  to  brag  of  it,  you  see,"  explained 
Betsey  reluctantly ;  "  but  I  know  her  to 
be  nigh  to  seventy-six,  one  way  or  t'  other. 
Her  an'  Mrs.  Mary  Ann  Chick  was  same 
year's  child'n,  and  Peggy  knows  I  know  it, 
an'  two  or  three  times  when  we  've  be'n  in 
the  buryin'-  ground  where  Mary  Ann  lays 
an'  has  her  dates  right  on  her  headstone, 
I  could  n't  bring  Peggy  to  take  no  sort  o' 


212        THE   FLIGHT   OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

notice.  I  will  say  she  makes,  at  times,  a 
convenience  of  being  upsighted.  But  there, 
I  feel  for  her,  —  everybody  does ;  it  keeps 
her  stubbin'  an'  trippin'  against  everything, 
beakin'  and  gazin'  up  the  way  she  has  to." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  doctor,  whose  eyes 
were  twinkling.     "  I  '11  come  and  look  after 
her,  with  your  town  doctor,  this  summer,  — 
some  time  in  the  last  of  July  or  first  of  Au 
gust." 

"  You  '11  find  occupation,"  said  Betsey,  not 
without  an  air  of  patronage.  "  Most  of  us 
to  the  Byfleet  Farm  has  got  our  ails,  now  I 
tell  ye.  You  ain't  got  no  bitters  that  '11 
take  a  dozen  years  right  off  an  ol'  lady's 
shoulders?" 

The  busy  man  smiled  pleasantly,  and 
shook  Ms  head  as  he  went  away.  "  Dun- 
ster,"  said  Betsey  to  herself,  soberly  com 
mitting  the  new  name  to  her  sound  memory. 
"  Yes,  I  must  n't  forget  to  speak  of  him  to 
the  doctor,  as  he  directed.  I  do'  know  now 
as  Peggy  would  vally  herself  quite  so  much 
accordin'  to,  if  she  had  her  eyes  fixed  same 
as  other  folks.  I  expect  there  would  n't 
been  a  smarter  woman  in  town,  though,  if 
she  'd  had  a  proper  chance.  Now  I  've  done 
what  I  set  to  do  for  her,  I  do  believe,  an' 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.      213 

't  wa'n't  glasses,  neither.  I  '11  git  her  a 
pritty  little  shawl  with  that  money  I  laid 
aside.  Peggy  Bond  ain't  got  a  pritty  shawl. 
I  always  wanted  to  have  a  real  good  time, 
an'  now  I  'm  havin'  it." 


VIII. 

Two  or  three  days  later,  two  pathetic  fig 
ures  might  have  been  seen  crossing  the 
slopes  of  the  poor-farm  field,  toward  the  low 
shores  of  Byfield  pond.  It  was  early  in  the 
morning,  and  the  stubble  of  the  lately  mown 
grass  was  wet  with  rain  and  hindering  to 
old  feet.  Peggy  Bond  was  more  blundering 
and  liable  to  stray  in  the  wrong  direction 
than  usual ;  it  was  one  of  the  days  when  she 
could  hardly  see  at  all.  Aunt  Lavina  Dow 
was  unusually  clumsy  of  movement,  and 
stiff  in  the  joints  ;  she  had  not  been  so  far 
from  the  house  for  three  years.  The  morn 
ing  breeze  filled  the  gathers  of  her  wide 
gingham  skirt,  and  aggravated  the  size  of 
her  unwieldy  figure.  She  supported  herself 
with  a  stick,  and  trusted  beside  to  the 
fragile  support  of  Peggy's  arm.  They  were 
talking  together  in  whispers. 


214       THE   FLIGHT   OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

"Oh,  my  sakes  !  "  exclaimed  Peggy,  mov 
ing  her  small  head  from  side  to  side.  "  Hear 
you  wheeze,  Mis'  Dow !  This  may  be  the 
death  o'  you  ;  there,  do  go  slow  !  You  set 
here  on  the  side-hill,  an'  le'  me  go  try  if  I 
can  see." 

"  It  needs  more  eyesight  than  you  've 
got,"  said  Mrs.  Dow,  panting  between  the 
words.  "  Oil !  to  think  how  spry  I  was  in 
my  young  days,  an'  here  I  be  now,  the  full 
of  a  door,  an'  all  my  complaints  so  aggra 
vated  by  my  size.  'T  is  hard  !  't  is  hard  ! 
but  I  'm  a-doin'  of  all  this  for  pore  Betsey's 
sake.  I  know  they  've  all  laughed,  but  I 
look  to  see  her  ris'  to  the  top  o'  the  pond 
this  day,  —  't  is  just  nine  days  since  she 
departed;  an'  say  what  they  may,  I  know 
she  hove  herself  in.  It  run  in  her  family ; 
Betsey  had  an  aunt  that  done  just  so,  an' 
she  ain't  be'n  like  herself,  a-broodin'  an' 
hivin'  away  alone,  an'  nothin'  to  say  to  you 
an'  me  that  was  always  sich  good  company 
all  together.  Some  thin'  sprung  her  mind, 
now  I  tell  ye,  Mis'  Bond." 

"  I  feel  to  hope  we  sha'n't  find  her,  I 
must  say,"  faltered  Peggy.  It  was  plain 
that  Mrs.  Dow  was  the  captain  of  this  dole 
ful  expedition.  "  I  guess  she  ain't  never 


THE  FLIGHT   OF  BETSEY  LANE.       215 

thought  o'  drowndin'  of  herself,  Mis'  Dow ; 
she  's  gone  off  a-visitin'  way  over  to  the 
other  side  o'  South  Byfleet;  some  thinks 
she 's  gone  to  the  Centennial  even  now !  " 

"  She  had  n't  no  proper  means,  I  tell  ye," 
wheezed  Mrs.  Dow  indignantly ;  "  an'  if 
you  prefer  that  others  should  find  her 
floatin'  to  the  top  this  day,  instid  of  us 
that 's  her  best  friends,  you  can  step  back 
to  the  house." 

They  walked  on  in  aggrieved  silence. 
Peggy  Bond  trembled  with  excitement,  but 
her  companion's  firm  grasp  never  wavered, 
and  so  they  came  to  the  narrow,  gravelly 
margin  and  stood  still.  Peggy  tried  in  vain 
to  see  the  glittering  water  and  the  pond- 
lilies  that  starred  it ;  she  knew  that  they 
must  be  there ;  once,  years  ago,  she  had 
caught  fleeting  glimpses  of  them,  and  she 
never  forgot  what  she  had  once  seen.  The 
clear  blue  sky  overhead,  the  dark  pine-woods 
beyond  the  pond,  were  all  clearly  pictured  in 
her  mind.  "  Can't  you  see  nothin'  ?  "  she 
faltered  ;  "  I  believe  I  'm  wuss  'n  upsighted 
this  day.  I  'm  going  to  be  blind." 

"  No,"  said  Lavina  Dow  solemnly ;  "  no, 
there  ain't  nothin'  whatever,  Peggy.  I  hope 
to  mercy  she  ain't " 


216       THE  FLIGHT   OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

"  Why,  whoever  'd  expected  to  find  you 
'way  out  here  !  "  exclaimed  a  brisk  and 
cheerful  voice.  There  stood  Betsey  Lane 
herself,  close  behind  them,  having  just 
emerged  from  a  thicket  of  alders  that  grew 
close  by.  She  was  following  the  short  way 
homeward  from  the  railroad. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Mis'  Dow? 
You  ain't  overdoin',  be  ye  ?  an'  Peggy  's  all 
of  a  flutter.  What  in  the  name  o'  natur' 
ails  ye  ?  " 

"There  ain't  nothin'  the  matter,  as  I 
knows  on,"  responded  the  leader  of  this 
fruitless  expedition.  "  We  only  thought 
we'd  take  a  stroll  this  pleasant  mornin'," 
she  added,  with  sublime  self-possession. 
"  Where  've  you  be'n,  Betsey  Lane  ?  " 

"  To  Pheladelphy,  ma'am,"  said  Betsey, 
looking  quite  young  and  gay,  and  wearing 
a  townish  and  unfamiliar  air  that  upheld 
her  words.  "  All  ought  to  go  that  can ; 
why,  you  feel 's  if  you  'd  be'n  all  round  the 
world.  I  guess  I  've  got  enough  to  think  of 
and  tell  ye  for  the  rest  o'  my  days.  I've 
always  wanted  to  go  somewheres.  I  wish 
you  'd  be'n  there,  I  do  so.  I  've  talked 
with  folks  from  Chiny  an'  the  back  o'  Penn- 
sylvany ;  and  I  see  folks  way  from  Australy 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE.       217 

that  'peared  as  well  as  anybody ;  an'  I  see  how 
they  made  spool  cotton,  an'  sights  o'  other 
things ;  an'  I  spoke  with  a  doctor  that  lives 
down  to  the  beach  in  the  summer,  an'  he 
offered  to  come  up  'long  in  the  first  of 
August,  an'  see  what  he  can  do  for  Peggy's 
eyesight.  There  was  di'monds  there  as  big 
as  pigeon's  eggs ;  an'  I  met  with  Mis'  Abby 
Fletcher  from  South  Byfleet  depot;  an' 
there  was  hogs  there  that  weighed  risin' 
thirteen  hunderd  " 

"  I  want  to  know,"  said  Mrs.  Lavina  Dow 
and  Peggy  Bond,  together. 

"  Well,  't  was  a  great  exper'ence  for  a 
person,"  added  Lavina,  turning  ponderously, 
in  spite  of  herself,  to  give  a  last  wistful  look 
at  the  smiling  waters  of  the  pond. 

"  I  don't  know  how  soon  I  be  goin'  to 
settle  clown,"  proclaimed  the  rustic  sister  of 
Sindbad.  "  What 's  for  the  good  o'  one  's 
for  the  good  of  all.  You  just  wait  till  we're 
setting  together  up  in  the  old  shed  chamber ! 
You  know,  my  dear  Mis'  Katy  Strafford 
give  me  a  han'some  present  o'  money  that 
day  she  come  to  see  me ;  and  I  'd  be'n 
a-dreamin'  by  night  an'  day  o'  seein'  that 
Centennial ;  and  when  I  come  to  think  on  't 
I  felt  sure  somebody  ought  to  go  from  this 


218       THE  FLIGHT  OF  BETSEY  LANE. 

neighborhood,  if  't  was  only  for  the  good 
o'  the  rest ;  and  I  thought  I  'd  better  be  the 
one.  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  ask  the  selec'meii 
neither.  I  've  come  back  with  one-thirty- 
five  in  money,  and  I  see  everything  there, 
an'  I  fetched  ye  all  a  little  somethin' ;  but 
I  'm  full  o'  dust  now,  an'  pretty  nigh  beat 
out.  I  never  see  a  place  more  friendly 
than  Pheladelphy;  but  't  ain't  natural  to 
a  Byfleet  person  to  be  always  walkin'  on  a 
level.  There,  now,  Peggy,  you  take  my 
bundle-handkercher  and  the  basket,  and  let 
Mis'  Dow  sag  on  to  me.  I  '11  git  her  along 
twice  as  easy." 

With  this  the  small  elderly  company  set 
forth  triumphant  toward  the  poor-house, 
across  the  wide  green  field. 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND  VESPERS. 

MASS  was  over ;  the  noonday  sun  was  so 
bright  at  the  church  door  that,  instead  of 
waiting  there  in  a  sober  expectant  group, 
three  middle-aged  men  of  the  parish  went  a 
few  steps  westward  to  stand  in  the  shade  of 
a  great  maple-tree.  There  they  stood  watch 
ing  the  people  go  by  —  the  small  boys  and 
the  chattering  girls.  Now  and  then  one  of 
the  older  men  or  women  said  a  few  words 
in  Irish  to  Dennis  Call  or  John  Mulligan 
by  way  of  friendly  salutation.  They  were  a 
contented,  pleasant-looking  flock,  these  pa 
rishioners  of  St.  Anne's ;  they  might  have 
lost  the  gayety  that  they  would  have  kept 
in  the  old  country,  but  a  look  of  good  cheer 
had  not  forsaken  them,  though  many  a  figure 
showed  the  thinness  that  comes  from  steady, 
hard  work,  and  almost  every  face  had  the 
deep  lines  that  are  worn  only  by  anxiety. 
The  pretty  girls  looked  as  their  mothers  had 
looked  before  them,  only  they  were  not  so 


220       BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

fair  and  fresh-colored,  having  been  brought 
up  less  wholesomely  and  too  much  indoors. 

"  That 's  a  nice  gerrl  o'  Mary  Finnerty's," 
said  Dennis  Call,  gravely,  to  his  mates,  fol 
lowing  the  charming  young  creature  with 
approving  eyes. 

"  'Deed,  then,  you  're  right,  Dinny," 
agreed  little  Pat  Finn,  a  queer  old  figure 
of  a  shoemaker,  who  was  bent  nearly  double 
between  the  effects  of  his  stooping  trade  and 
a  natural  warp  in  his  bones.  "  There  don't 
be  so  pritty  a  little  gerrl  as  Katy  Finnerty 
walk  into  church,  so  there  don't !  I  like  her 
meself;  she's  got  the  cut  o'  the  gerrls  in 
Tralee  —  the  prittiest  gerrls  is  in  it  that 's 
in  the  whole  of  Ireland." 

"  Coom  now,  then !  you  do  always  be 
bragging  for  Tralee  ;  there  's  enough  other 
places  as  good  as  it,"  scoffed  Dennis.  "  Any 
body  that  ain't  a  Bantry  man  can  tark  as 
they  like,  they  '11  have  to  put  up  wid  second- 
best  whin  all 's  said  an'  done." 

"  Whisht  now !  "  said  John  Mulligan,  put 
ting  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  bobbing 
his  head  respectfully  at  Father  Ryan,  the  old 
priest,  who  had  just  come  hurrying  from  the 
vestry  door  along  a  precarious  footway  of 
single  boards  left  there  since  the  days  of 
spring  mud. 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.       221 

"  I  hope  you  're  feeling  fine  the  day,  sir  ?  " 
said  little  Pat  Finn,  looking  up  with  friend 
liness  and  pride  at  the  tall  old  man. 
"  We  're  getting  good  weather  now,  thank 
God,  sir." 

"  We  are  that,  Patrick  Finn.  God  bless 
you,  boys !  "  And  Father  Ryan  went  past 
them  down  the  street  to  his  house,  while  they 
all  watched  him  without  speaking  until  he 
had  turned  in  at  the  gate  with  a  flutter  of 
his  long  coat-tails  in  the  spring  wind. 

"  Faix,  I  wisht  we  all  had  the  sharp  teeth 
for  our  dinners  that  his  riverence  has  now," 
laughed  Dennis.  "  I  '11  be  bound  he  's  keen 
for  it,  honest  man.  'Twas  to  early  mass 
over  to  White  Mills  he  was,  lavin'  by  break 
o'  day,  an'  just  comin'  back  an'  they  sent  to 
him  for  poor  Mary  Sullivan  that 's  to  be 
waked  this  night,  God  rest  her ;  and  he  not 
home  from  the  corp'  house  an'  Mary  just 
dead,  but  two  women  come  screechin'  for  him 
to  hurry,  there  was  a  shild  to  be  christened 
waitin'  in  the  church;  'twas  one  o'  Jerry 
Hann an's  wife's,  that  whit  into  black  fits  an' 
it  being  two  hours  born.  Then  it  was  high 
mass  he  had.  I  saw  him  myself  puttin'  a 
hand  to  his  head  an'  humpin'  wit'  his  shoul 
ders,  an'  he  before  the  alther.  'T  is  a  great 


222       BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPEES. 

dale  o'  worruk,  so  it  is,  for  a  man  the  age  o' 
Father  Ryan,  may  God  help  him !  " 

"  I  'd  think  the  Bishop  'ould  give  him  some 
aid  now.  They  could  sind  some  young  mis- 
sioner  for  a  while  to  White  Mills.  'T  is  out 
of  our  own  rights  we  do  be,  an'  he  to  White 
Mills,  day  an7  night  wit'  them  French,  an' 
one  of  us  took  hurt  or  dyin'.  'T  is  too  far 
to  White  Mills  intirely,"  protested  John 
Mulligan. 

"  Well,  b'ys,  the  road 's  clear  for  us  now, 
an'  I  '11  say  that  I  've  got  the  match  to  Father 
Ryan's  hunger  in  me  own  inside,  't  is  thrue 
for  me.  Coom,  Pat,  now,  there  's  no  more 
gerrls  !  Get  a  move  on  you  now,  John,  the 
fince  is  tired  from  ye ! "  And  being  thus 
suitably  urged  Dennis's  companions  started 
on  their  way.  Dennis  himself  was  a  sturdy, 
middle-aged  man,  a  teamster  for  the  manu 
facturing  company  that  had  long  ago  gath 
ered  these  Irish  people  into  the  staid  and 
prosperous  New  England  village.  They  had 
made  a  neighborhood  by  themselves,  and 
were  just  now  alarmed  in  their  turn  and  dis 
turbed  by  the  presence  of  a  few  French 
Canadians,  so  thoroughly  did  they  feel  at 
home  and  believe  in  their  rights  to  an 
adopted  country.  They  meant  to  stay,  at 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.       223 

any  rate,  and  jealously  suspected  their  lively 
neighbors  of  only  a  temporary  appropriation 
of  citizenship  that  would  take  more  than 
it  gave.  Dennis  Call  would  have  been  a 
prosperous  man  and  good  citizen  anywhere, 
with  his  soberness  and  thrift  and  decent  no 
tions;  he  was  much  respected  by  his  fellow- 
townsfolk. 

"  Coom,  now !  "  exclaimed  Pat  Finn,  try 
ing  to  keep  step  with  his  tall  companions, 
" '  Leg  over  leg,  as  the  dog  wint  to  Dover,' ' 
he  added  cheerfully.  "  I  might  have  been 
coaxing  a  ride  home  wit'  Braley's  folks,  they 
had  the  one  sate  saved  in  the  wagon,  but  I 
was  idlin'  me  time  away  wit'  the  likes  of 
you;  a  taste  of  tark  is  always  the  ruin  of 
me." 

"  Good-day  to  ye,  Pat,"  the  others  called 
after  him  as  he  crossed  over  to  go  down  a 
side-street ;  but  the  droll,  stooping  figure  did 
not  turn  again,  and  Mulligan  and  Dennis 
went  on  in  the  peaceful  company.  Dennis 
Was  a  step  ahead  of  his  friend.  You  rarely 
see  the  old-fashioned  Irish  folk  walk  side  by 
side ;  perhaps  they  keep  a  dim  remembrance 
of  footpaths  over  the  open  fields  and  moors. 
There  is  less  of  the  formal,  military  sense 
than  belongs  to  most  Europeans,  and  a  con- 


224       BETWEEN  MASS  AND    VESPERS. 

stant  suggestion  of  the  flock  rather  than  the 
platoon. 

At  this  moment  two  women  who  had  lin 
gered  in  the  church  overtook  our  friends  and 
gave  them  a  cordial  greeting.  One  was  the 
niece  of  Dennis  Call,  and  almost  as  old  as  he. 
They  lived  at  opposite  ends  of  the  town,  and 
she  stopped  to  ask  him  some  questions  about 
his  family,  while  the  other  two,  after  hesi 
tating  a  moment,  went  their  way  together. 
Sunday  is  the  great  social  occasion  for  wo 
men  who  are  hardly  out  of  their  houses  all 
the  rest  of  the  week,  and  Dennis  eagerly  be 
sought  the  favor  of  a  visit.  "  Run  home  wit' 
me  now  for  a  bite  of  dinner,"  lie  urged. 
"  'T  will  be  pot-luck,  but  the  folks  11  give  you 
a  grand  welcome,  and  some  of  the  children 
will  be  coming  to  vespers." 

"  Yirra  now,  I  can't  then,  Dinny,"  the 
niece  insisted,  but  her  face  shone  with  grati 
fication,  and  they  both  knew  that  she  was 
ready  to  accept. 

"  Oh,  be  friendly  now  an'  come  an'  see  the 
folks,"  Dennis  continued.  "  The  poor  wo 
man  was  in  all  the  week  wit'  a  bad  wakeness 
that  troubles  her  very  bad,  't  is  the  stomach- 
bone  falls  down,  they  all  says,  but  the  docther 
has  it  that  she 's  only  wantin'  a  bit  of  strength 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND    VESPERS.       225 

wit'  the  spring  weather  an'  all.  'T  is  a  dale 
o'  work  she  has  all  the  time,  but  the  little 
gerrls  begins  to  help  iligant  now,  an'  'twill 
soon  be  aisy ;  they  grow  very  fast.  Little 
Mag  is  getting  a  foine  dinner  the  day. 
Coom,  Mary!" 

Mary  gave  a  sigh  of  compassion  for  the 
hard-worked  mother,  whose  tiredness  she 
•well  comprehended.  "You're  lucky  then, 
Dinnis,  and  herself  is  lucky,  the  two  of  you 
bein'  together  and  you  gettin'  steady  work 
the  year  through.  1  know  well  herself  gets 
a  bit  of  the  pain  in  her,  we  all  gets  it,  faix  ! 
I  knows  well  what  it  is.  'T  is  our  folks  has 
hard  times,  wid  my  man  dead  this  sivin  years 
gone  an'  the  old  'oman  always  in  her  bed, 
an'  I  havin'  to  tind  poor  Johnny  an'  herself 
like  two  babies.  Wisha,  wisha !  I  was  n't 
to  mass  —  to-day  is  four  Sundays  gone  since 
I  heard  mass  before.  Well  now,  see !  I  'm 
goin'  wid  you  like  a  little  lost  dog.  I  'm 
glad  of  a  treat  —  but  I  '11  help  little  Mag  wid 
the  dinner,  so  I  will,  't  is  a  task  for  the 
shild." 

A  lovely  readiness  to  help  shone  in  Mary 
O'Donnell's  homely  face.  She  looked  poor 
and  anxious  ;  her  bonnet,  with  its  brown  and 
white  plaided  ribbon  and  ancient  shape, 


226       BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  ten  years  in 
wear.  She  had  worn  her  poor  mourning 
threadbare  and  returned  to  this  headgear  of 
an  earlier  and  more  prosperous  time.  She 
had  been  full  of  hope  and  cheerfulness  when 
she  bought  the  queer  old  brown  bonnet,  but 
a  blessed  light  of  hope  and  kindliness  still 
shone  in  her  eyes. 

As  they  went  along,  busy  with  their 
homely  talk,  some  one  lifted  a  window  near 
them  and  called  "  Dennis,  Dennis !  "  in  a 
tone  of  mild  authority. 

"  'T  is  his  riverence  wants  you !  "  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  O'Donnell,  flushing  with  excite 
ment  and  pleasure.  "  I  '11  be  going  on  slow ; 
do  you  take  your  time.  Run  now,  Dinny  !  " 

"  I  '11  be  there,  sir,"  said  Dennis,  already 
inside  the  gate,  and  by  the  time  he  reached 
the  steps,  Father  Ryan  opened  the  door. 
"  Step  in,"  he  said ;  "  I  must  have  a  word 
with  you.  Who  's  that  with  you  ?  " 

"  Mary  O'Donnell,  she  that 's  brother's- 
daughter  to  me,  sir ;  't  ain't  often  we  gets 
the  bit  of  tark.  She  's  goin'  home  to  dinner 
with  the  folks,  —  herself  's  at  home  the  day, 
sir,  she  's  not  well." 

"  I  '11  stop  an'  see  her  one  day  soon.  I 
missed  her  at  mass.  Your  wife  's  a  good 
woman,  Dennis." 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND    VESPERS.       227 

"  An'  Mary  O'Donnell,  too,  has  done  fine— 
she  was  af ther  bein'  left  very  poor,  't  is  your 
self  knows  it  well,  an'  has  been  very  kind, 
sir.  She  had  but  the  two  hands  of  her  for 
depindence,  but  we  all  did  what  we  could." 
Dennis  had  blushed  at  the  priest's  good  words 
about  his  wife  as  if  he  himself  had  been 
praised.  "  I  thank  God  I  'm  prospered  wit' 
good  health,  sir." 

The  old  priest  stood  still  in  the  narrow 
entry  looking  at  Dennis  Call  as  if  he  were 
riot  listening  and  were  lost  in  his  own 
thoughts.  Dennis  stood  with  hat  in  hand ; 
the  moment  was  strangely  embarrassing. 
Father  Ryan's  strong-featured,  good-humored 
face  looked  drawn  and  bluish  as  if  he  were 
really  suffering  from  hunger  and  fatigue  and 
some  unforeseen  perplexity  beside.  There 
was  a  cheerful  insistent  clatter  of  plates  in 
the  little  dining-room  beyond,  and  a  comfort 
ing  odor  of  roast-beef.  Dennis  felt  more 
puzzled  every  moment,  but  he  unconsciously 
smacked  his  lips  in  spite  of  uncertainties  as 
to  what  the  priest  wanted. 

"  My  heart 's  sick,  Dennis,"  said  his  rev 
erence,  and  a  sudden  flicker  of  light  shone 
in  his  eyes. 

Dennis  shifted  his  weight  to  the  other  foot 


228      BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

and  passed  his  hat  from  right  hand  to  left. 
"What's  the  matter,  then,  sir?"  he  asked 
anxiously.  "  Did  anybody  break  the  church 
window  again  I  do' know?  "  He  felt  a  little 
impatient;  Mary  O'Donnell  would  be  far 
down  the  street,  and  the  priest's  good  dinner 
made  a  man  unbearably  hungry.  Still 
Father  Ryan  was  frowning  and  planning 
without  saying  a  word,  and  it  made  an  hon 
est  man  feel  like  a  thief. 

"  Dennis,  will  you  take  a  bit  of  dinner 
with  me  now  and  run  afterward  to  Fletcher's 
place  and  get  the  best  horse  that 's  in,  all  in 
fifteen  minutes'  time  ?  And  say  we  're  going 
on  an  errand  of  mercy  if  anybody  puts  a 
question.  They  '11  think  it 's  for  the  sick 
while  it 's  for  the  well,  God  save  us,"  said 
the  old  man. 

"I'll  do  that,  sir,"  said  Dennis. 

"  Let 's  to  dinner  then,"  said  Father  Ryan. 
"  I  suppose  good  Mary  O'Donnell  's  out  of 
sound  of  your  voice." 

Dennis  opened  the  door  hastily,  it  was  a 
relief  to  do  something,  and  gave  a  loud  call 
to  Mary,  who  was  still  loitering  not  so  very 
far  away.  "  I  '11  not  be  home  to  my  dinner," 
said  he.  "  Do  you  go  on  then  and  tell  the 
folks."  So  Mary,  in  happy  amaze,  went  her 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.       229 

ways  to  carry  the  pleasing  news  that  Dennis 
was  kept  to  his  dinner  with  the  priest. 

Father  Ryan  was  already  in  the  dining- 
room  ;  the  roast-beef  was  smoking  on  the  ta 
ble,  there  were  onions  and  potatoes,  and  even 
cranberry-sauce  from  some  secret  repository 
of  the  housekeeper,  who  was  not  unmindful 
of  the  priest's  long  morning  of  hard  service. 
Mrs.  Dillon  was  setting  another  plate  op 
posite  Father  Ryan's  own.  Dennis  forgot 
that  he  was  clinging  to  his  Sunday  hat,  but 
when  they  had  blessed  themselves,  and  din 
ner  was  fairly  begun,  and  the  hat  pushed 
under  the  table,  the  guest  felt  that  he  could 
hold  his  own  again,  and  ventured  a  sociable 
remark.  Dennis  was  as  quick  as  he  could 
be,  but  the  priest  finished  his  beef  first,  and 
impatiently  waved  back  a  noble  Sunday  pud 
ding  which  Mrs.  Dillon  was  proudly  bringing 
in  at  the  door.  "  Run  for  the  mare  now,  if 
you've  had  enough,"  said  he,  and  Dennis 
gave  a  lingering  glance  at  the  pudding  and 
departed. 

u  Lord  be  good  to  us,  but  he  's  in  the 
hurry ! "  he  grumbled,  as  he  went  at  a  jog 
trot  down  the  street.  It  was  not  yet  one 
o'clock  and  a  lovely  May  afternoon.  The 
season  was  early,  and  the  maples  in  full  leaf ; 


230       BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

the  prospect  of  a  drive  out  into  the  country, 
with  a  light  buggy,  and  possibly  Fletcher's 
best  mare,  delighted  Dennis  Call  as  if  he 
were  a  schoolboy.  He  marched  into  the 
stable  yard  with  most  important  manners, 
and  said,  in  the  hearing  of  a  group  of  stay- 
at-home  loungers,  that  Father  Ryan  called 
for  the  best  team  and  was  in  great  haste. 

"What's  up,  Dennis,  a  christening?"  in 
quired  an  amiable  idler ;  but  Dennis  plunged 
his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets  and  calmly 
turned  away,  and  looked  up  at  the  blue  sky 
with  an  air  of  assurance,  exactly  as  if  he 
were  not  wishing  that  he  knew,  himself.  Pre 
sently  he  stepped  into  the  light  carriage  with 
the  air  of  a  lord,  and  whirled  out  of  the  yard. 

"Which  way  now,  sir?"  he  asked  the 
priest,  who  was  already  waiting  at  his  gate, 
but  Father  Ryan  took  the  reins  himself. 
"  I  'm  afraid  you  might  go  too  slow  for 
me,"  he  said,  trying  to  give  Dennis  a  droll, 
reassuring  look,  but  he  could  not  hide  the 
provocation,  and  even  grief,  that  he  evidently 
felt.  "  I  don't  forget  that  you  are  used  to 
heavy  teaming,"  he  added,  and  they  both 
laughed  and  felt  much  more  at  ease.  "  I 
must  be  back  in  time  for  vespers,"  said  his 
reverence,  as  they  passed  the  church. 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.       231 

The  sorrel  mare  sped  along  the  road ;  her 
master  had  kept  her  in  for  his  own  use  later 
that  afternoon,  and  she  was  only  too  fresh 
and  ready.  For  a  while  they  followed  the 
main  road  toward  the  next  large  town,  and 
passed  many  of  their  acquaintances,  driving 
or  on  foot,  and  Dennis  was  not  without  pride 
at  being  seen  in  the  priest's  company ;  but 
suddenly  they  turned  into  a  rough,  seldom- 
traveled  by-way,  that  led  up  among  the  hills. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  errand  were  to  some  per 
son  in  trouble,  but  presently  they  had  left 
behind  what  appeared  to  be  the  last  house. 
This  was  a  strange  path  to  follow,  and  for 
what  reason  had  Father  Ryan  desired  a  com 
panion,  unless  it  were  necessary  in  such  a 
steep  and  almost  dangerous  ascent  ?  Once, 
years  before,  Dennis  had  climbed  by  this 
deserted  road,  up  to  the  woodlands  of  the 
higher  hills  ;  he  had  been  gunning  with  some 
young  men,  and  he  remembered  the  small, 
lonely  farms  that  they  had  just  passed,  and 
how  poor  and  inhospitable  they  looked  in  the 
winter  weather ;  in  fact,  his  remembrance  of 
the  holiday  was  not  bright  in  any  way,  be 
cause  he  had  gained  but  a  poor  day's  sport. 
None  of  the  priest's  flock  lived  in  this  direc 
tion,  that  was  one  sure  thing. 


232      BETWEEN  MASS  AND    VESPERS. 

The  road  seemed  to  grow  steeper  and 
steeper ;  the  sorrel  mare  stopped  once  or 
twice,  discouraged,  and  looked  ahead  at  the 
hard  climb.  There  were  dark  hemlocks  and 
pines  on  either  side,  illuminated  here  and 
there  by  the  vivid  green  of  young  birch  sap 
lings  that  stood  where  they  caught  the  sun 
light.  Tlie  air  was  fresh  and  sweet,  there 
were  busy  birds  fluttering  and  calling ;  the 
light  tread  of  the  mare  seemed  to  disturb 
the  secluded  region,  as  if  nothing  had  passed 
that  way  since  the  coming  of  the  year. 

Father  Eyan  had  not  spoken  for  a  long 
time  ;  all  the  cheerfulness  had  faded  from  his 
face.  "  Dennis !  "  said  he  suddenly,  so  that 
the  man  at  his  side  turned,  startled  and  open- 
eyed,  to  look  at  him.  "  Dennis,  you  remem 
ber  that  smart  young  Dan  Nolan,  Tom  No 
lan's  boy,  the  one  that  went  to  the  seminary 
for  a  while,  but  left  and  went  West  to  be  a 
railroad  man  ?  " 

"  I  does  mind  Danny  Nolan,  sir ;  they  say 
he 's  got  rich.  Him  an'  John  Finnerty's 
gerrl  is  courtin'  this  long  time,  the  pritty 
gerrl  Katy  ;  I  saw  her  coming  out  from  mass 
the  day.  John  Finnerty  do  be  thinking 
she  's  got  a  great  match,  the  b'y  always  says 
in  his  letters  that  he  's  doing  fine." 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.       233 

"  May  God  forgive  him !  "  said  the  priest, 
under  his  breath. 

"  Why,  in  course  I  'd  know  him  well,  sir," 
Dennis  continued  eagerly,  in  his  most  com 
municative  manner.  "Wasn't  he  brought 
up  next  house  to  my  own  by  the  mill  yard, 
until  I  moved  to  the  better  one  I  'm  in  now, 
thanks  be  to  God,  the  other  one  being  dacint 
to  look  at,  but  very  damp  an'  the  cause  of 
much  sickness  to  every  one.  Oh,  but  the 
fine  letters  the  b'y  does  be  writing  home, 
they  brings  them  and  reads  them  to  herself 
an'  me ;  truth  is  Tom  Nolan  's  put  his  money 
into  a  mine  that  Danny 's  knowing  to,  out 
where  he  is,  and  they  've  been  at  me  would 
n't  I  come  wid  'em.  Every  one  says  there  do 
be  a  power  o'  money  in  it.  The  tark  is  all 
right,  but  for  Tom  not  having  got  any  pa 
pers  ;  I  'd  like  to  see  the  papers  they  gives, 
first ;  an'  I  think  meself ,  sir,  it 's  the  same 
with  Tom,  but  he  won't  let  on." 

"  My  God !  "  said  the  old  priest  again. 

"An'  John  Finnerty,  the  little  gerrl's 
f adther,  he  sint  t'ree  hundred  —  't  was  all  he 
had  laid  by  —  you  know  the  wife  's  a  great 
spinder  —  an'  Danny  Nolan  wrote  back  he  'd 
find  it  t'ree  thousand  this  time  next  year,  an' 
herself  has  been  in  the  street  goin'  to  the 


234      BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

shops  ivery  night  since  then,  as  rich-feeling 
as  a  conthractor!  Katy,  the  young  thing, 
sint  him  out  her  small  savings  she  got  in  the 
mill  that  she  was  keeping  to  buy  her  wedding 
with.  I  was  against  that  when  they  tould 
me,  but  she  'd  sint  to  Dan  and  he  wrote  a 
great  letter  to  sind  it  along,  an'  he  'd  put  it 
where  it  would  grow.  '  Too  many  eggs  in 
the  one  basket,'  says  I.  She  's  awful  proud 
of  Dan,  and  he  do  be  always  writin'  the 
beautiful  letters,  sir ;  but  he  does  be  knowing 
his  fadther  works  hard  all  the  time,  and  at 
Christmas  last  year  divil  a  cint  came  home  to 
any  one  of  them.  They  all  says  it  was  too  far 
entirely  to  be  gettin'  prisents,  but  they  'd  like 
to  be  showing  anything  they  got  the  lingth 
of  the  town.  Tell  me  now,  sir,  do  ye  know 
of  anything  wrong  ?  I  do  be  thinkin'  you  've 
heard  bad  news.  I  could  n't  tell  why  " 

Father  Ryan  touched  the  horse  and  gave 
a  queer  groan  before  he  spoke. 

"  The  truth  is  that  Dan  Nolan  's  a  swin 
dler,"  said  he.  "  Those  poor  souls  '11  never 
see  their  money  again." 

"  Well,  something  held  me  back  from 
him,  thanks  be  to  God  !  "  protested  Dennis 
with  pride,  though  he  looked  shocked  and 
anxious.  "  I  come  very  near  givin'  him  all 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.      235 

I  had  too.  Whin  a  craze  gets  amongst 
folks,  one  must  be  doing  like  all  the  rest ; 
ain't  it  so,  sir  ?  And  that  Dan  was  the  best 
scholar  in  the  schools  here ;  don't  you  mind 
the  praise  he  'd  get  from  every  one,  an'  his 
fadther  was  proud  as  a  paycock.  I  does 
be  thinkin'  them  schools  has  their  faults.  If 
a  man  dies  now  an'  laves  a  houseful  of 
childher  they  don't  be  half  so  fit  to  earn  their 
bread  as  they  were  in  the  old  times.  I  'm 
thinkin'  the  old  folks  was  wiser  wit'  the 
childher,  Father  Ryan,  sir  !  " 

"  There  never  was  a  boy  in  any  parish  I 
had  these  forty-five  years  that  I  took  the 
pains  with  that  I  took  with  him,"  said  Father 
Ryan  slowly.  "  I  paid  the  most  of  his  bills 
myself  when  he  went  to  the  seminary.  Poor 
Tom  Nolan  could  n't  do  it,  with  his  small 
wages  and  the  sickness  and  the  trouble  he 
used  to  have.  Danny  was  my  altar-boy,  — 
a  pretty  face  there  was  on  him,  and  a  laugh 
ing  eye.  He  always  stood  to  me  for  a  little 
brother  of  mine,  and  looked  the  very  mar 
row  of  him  when  I  first  saw  him,  and  Tom 
came  to  the  mills.  My  little  brother  was 
my  playmate,  we  were  always  together  like 
twin  lambs.  I  can  mind  myself  now,  and 
I  running  home  alone,  crying,  to  tell  my 


236       BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

poor  mother  that  we  'd  run  away  to  the 
rocks,  and  a  great  wave  came  in  and  licked 
him  off  before  my  very  eyes,  and  I  a  bit 
higher  up  on  the  shore.  I  wake  up  dream 
ing  of  him,  stiff  with  the  horror  and  a  cold 
sweat  all  over  me,  after  a  lifetime  that  's 
gone  between  me  and  that  day.  I  'm  an 
old  man  now,  Dennis  Call,  and  my  mind  's 
always  been  in  a  priest's  holy  business. 
But  I've  a  warm  Irish  heart  in  me,  and 
there  are  times  when  I  'd  like  a  brother's 
young  child,  or  one  of  my  sister's  that  I 
left  long  ago  in  Kerry,  or  to  see  my  old 
mother  shake  her  head  and  have  the  laugh 
at  me,  and  I  sitting  there  in  the  long  win 
ter  evening  in  my  still  house.  And  when 
that  young  Danny  Nolan  gave  a  smile  at 
me,  like  the  little  lad  that  went  under  the 
sea,  and  never  was  afraid,  or  trying  to  get 
away  from  me  because  I  was  the  priest,  I 
liked  him  more  than  I  knew.  I  could  n't 
see  then  why  he  should  n't  make  a  good 
man,  and  I  helped  him  the  best  I  could. 
I  know  plenty  of  harm  of  him  now,  God 
forgive  him  and  bring  him  to  repentance." 
The  old  man  scowled  and  looked  away. 
His  heart  was  filled  with  sorrow.  Dennis's 
ready  tongue  was  checked,  but  he  was  grum- 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.       237 

bling  to  himself  about  the  black  heart  of 
Danny  Nolan.  "  I  begin  to  think  that  sharp 
wits  are  the  least  of  all  the  means  by  which 
a  man  wins  true  success,"  said  Father  Ryan. 

"  Everybody  thought  well  of  Dan  Nolan 
then,  sir."  Dennis  tried  to  comfort  him  ; 
he  had  seen  Father  Ryan  angry  and  stern, 
but  never  cast  down  like  this. 

They  came  to  an  open,  grassy  space  on  a 
shelf  of  the  great  hill.  At  one  side  was  the 
cellar  where  a  house  had  stood  long  ago  ; 
some  roses  still  grew  about  it,  and  there 
was  much  of  the  solemn  little  cypress  plant, 
so  often  seen  in  country  burying-grounds, 
growing  about  the  crumbling  foundations 
and  straying  off  into  the  grass.  There  was 
a  smooth,  broad  doorstep  partly  overgrown, 
and  a  hop-vine  was  sending  up  its  deter 
mined  shoots  near  by,  where  it  could  find 
nothing  to  twine  upon.  The  old  doorstep 
had  evidently  served  as  a  seat  for  stray 
wanderers ;  there  was  a  place  before  it  that 
had  been  worn  by  feet,  like  the  beginning 
of  a  path.  The  house  had  been  gone  many 
years,  but  one  might  have  thought  that  its 
ghost  was  there,  and  the  doorstep  was  still 
trodden  by  those  unseen  inhabitants  who 
went  and  came.  The  priest  may  have 


238       BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

thought  this,  but  Dennis  saw  a  gun  wad 
lying  by  the  step,  and  a  little  bird  fluttered 
away,  as  if  it  had  been  finding  a  few  stray 
crumbs. 

There  was  a  magnificent  view  of  the  wide 
spread  lower  country  — -  woods  and  clearings 
and  bushy  pasture-lands  stretching  miles 
upon  miles,  with  a  river  dividing  them  like 
a  shining  ribbon ;  and  white  villages,  with 
their  tiny  spires  and  sprinkled  houses  and 
heavy  dark  mills.  As  you  turned  the  other 
way  you  looked  up  the  dark  hill-slope.  The 
road  appeared  to  end  here  by  the  deserted 
farmstead,  but  some  winter  wood-roads  led 
off  in  different  directions. 

Father  Ryan  stopped  the  breathless  mare 
and  got  down  clumsily.  "  We  '11  walk 
from  here,  Dennis,"  he  said,  and  Dennis 
also  alighted.  His  face  was  befogged  with 
perplexity.  They  plunged  deep  into  the 
woods  along  one  of  the  half  overgrown  win 
ter  tracks  which  led  up  and  over  a  high 
shoulder  of  the  great  hill. 

"  'T  is  like  the  way  to  the  cave  of  the 
foxy  'oman,"  said  Dennis,  half  aloud,  as  a 
dry  twig  whipped  him  in  the  face,  and 
Father  Kyan  heard  him  and  laughed. 

"  Well,  it 's  wonderful  how  those  old  tales 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.      239 

do  stay  in  the  mind,"  lie  said  cheerfully. 
"I  was  working  away  with  a  book  yester 
day,  a  fine  hard  knot  of  Latin  it  was,  too, 
and  I  got  sleepy,  and  not  a  bit  could  I  think 
of  but  how  did  the  story  of  the  Little 
Cakeen  go  that  my  old  granny  used  to  tell 
me  before  she  'd  give  me  a  little  cakeen  her 
self  that  she  'd  have  hidden  in  her  blue 
cloak.  I  'd  be  afraid  to  eat  it,  too,  after  the 
tale.  Well,  I  think  it  might  be  twenty 
years  since  I  thought  of  it,  but  I  could  not 
rid  my  mind  of  the  trick  of  that  foolish 
story,  and  it  kept  twirling  itself  round  and 
round  in  my  mind.  It  may  be  the  way 
with  old  folks.  I  begin  to  feel  old." 

"  'T  was  a  great  story  of  the  Little  Ca 
keen,"  agreed  Dennis  solemnly.  "  I  do  be 
telling  it  to  the  childher ;  there  's  nothing 
anybody  tells  that  they  'd  like  so  well,  wit' 
their  little  screeches  always  in  the  same 
place.  'T  was  the  same  way  wit'  my  bro 
thers  and  meself  at  home.  We  'd  better 
mind,  sir,  lest  ourselves  gets  on  the  fox's 
back  an'  into  his  big  mout'.  Do  you  know 
where  you  do  be  going?"  Dennis  looked 
about  him  anxiously. 

The  priest  only  laughed ;  a  queer  laugh 
it  was  that  might  mean  one  thing  or  another. 


240       BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

"  Come  on ! "  he  said.  "  You  make  me 
think  of  another  old  tale  they  used  to  be 
telling  at  home  about  one  Mrs.  O'Flaherty's 
donkey,  that  could  neither  go  nor  stand 
still." 

At  this  moment,  when  the  conversation 
had  taken  a  most  sociable  and  even  merry 
tone,  the  two  men  found  themselves  on  the 
edge  of  the  thick  woods,  with  an  open, 
partly  overgrown  acre  of  land  before  them. 
The  seedling  pines  had  covered  a  piece  of 
land  cleared  and  deserted  again  many  years 
before ;  they  had  grown  close  to  the  tumble 
down  old  house,  which  had  sometimes  been 
used  as  a  shelter  by  lumbermen  who  were  at 
work  among  the  hills,  or  sportsmen  who 
might  have  taken  refuge  there  in  wet 
weather.  Dennis  was  astonished  to  find 
himself  there;  he  remembered  the  place 
well,  but  they  had  reached  it  by  so  short  a 
path  that  the  priest  seemed  to  have  brought 
him  by  the  aid  of  magic.  Dennis  had  taken 
heart  at  a  change  for  the  better  in  Father 
Ryan's  manner,  and  was  already  preparing 
to  laugh  at  the  expected  story  about  a  don 
key;  but  Father  Ryan  looked  stern  and 
priestly  again  and  began  to  stride  forward, 
telling  Dennis  by  a  gesture  to  wait  outside 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.       241 

the  house.  "'Tis  a  den  of  thieves  I'm 
sure,  now,"  muttered  Dennis,  but  he  fol 
lowed  his  companion  to  the  door,  and  stood 
there,  strong  and  sturdy  and  not  displeased, 
looking  about  him  suspiciously  like  a  wary 
sentinel. 

The  priest  stepped  softly  on  the  pasture 
turf  among  the  little  pine-trees,  and  entered 
the  door  as  if  he  did  not  mean  to  be  heard. 
Immediately  there  was  a  scuffle  and  crash 
inside  and  the  jar  of  a  heavy  fall,  at  which 
Dennis  Call  rushed  in  with  his  eyes  dan 
cing  and  his  fists  clenched. 

There,  in  the  middle  of  the  dismal  rain- 
stained  room,  by  an  overturned  table  and 
broken  chair,  Father  Ryan  was  fighting  with 
a  younger  man  and  getting  the  worst  of  it. 
Dennis  pounced  down  and  caught  the  fel 
low  off  by  the  shoulders.  His  great  thumbs 
held  down  the  cords  like  iron  bolts ;  he 
stood  the  rascal  back  on  his  knees  and  gave 
him  a  terrible  shaking.  Dennis  had  been 
a  tidy  man  at  a  fight  when  he  was  younger, 
and  his  rage  revived  the  best  of  his  experi 
ence.  "  Get  up,  sir ;  get  up,  your  river- 
ence ! "  he  commanded,  in  a  bold  voice. 
"  Lave  the  beggar  to  me  !  "  and  he  kept 
his  clutch  with  one  hand  while  he  adminis- 


242       BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

tered  a  succession  of  sound  blows  with  the 
other.  "  Take  that,  will  you  now,  Danny 
Nolan,  an'  that  wit'  it ! "  he  said  scorn 
fully.  "  Is  it  full  of  drink  you  are,  I  do' 
know,  to  strike  down  an  old  an'  rispicted 
man  that 's  been  a  fadther  to  you,  and  he 
God's  priest  beside !  I  '11  bate  the  life  out 
of  you  and  lave  you  here  to  the  crows  an' 
I  get  a  saucy  word  out  o'  your  head,  so 
there,  now !  "  and  Dennis  proceeded  to  cuff 
and  shake  his  captive  unmercifully. 

The  old  priest  looked  shocked  and  shaken ; 
he  got  upon  his  feet  and  tried  to  brush  the 
dust  from  his  black  clothes.  There  was  no 
place  to  sit,  it  was  a  dirty,  stifling  place, 
and  he  turned  and  went  swaying  with  falter 
ing  steps  to  the  door,  and  Dennis,  holding 
the  young  man's  arm  in  an  unflinching  grip, 
went  after  him. 

"  Sit  down  on  the  step,  sir,"  he  said,  anx 
iously,  to  the  old  man.  "  I  hope  it  is  n't 
faint  you  are,  sir?  " 

Father  Ryan  seated  himself  upon  the 
crumbling  door-sill,  and  Dennis  backed  him 
self  and  his  captive  against  a  bowlder  that 
stood  in  front  of  the  old  house,  close  by. 
As  he  turned  to  take  a  good  look  at  Dan 
Nolan,  a  feeling  of  contempt  stole  into  his 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.       243 

honest  face.  In  the  clear  light  the  young 
man  looked  so  colorless  and  disreputable, 
wrecked  and  ruined  by  an  only  too  evident 
life  of  vice  and  ignorance  of  every  sort  of 
decent  behavior,  that  he  seemed  but  a  poor 
antagonist  for  a  man  like  Dennis  Call.  There 
was  little  left  of  his  boyish  good  looks  and 
fine  spirit.  He  must  have  thrown  Father 
Ryan  by  some  trick  that  caught  him  unpre 
pared,  for  in  spite  of  his  age  the  priest 
looked  much  the  stronger  of  the  two.  Den 
nis  felt  a  strange  anxiety  as  he  saw  how 
badly  out  of  breath  Father  Ryan  was  still, 
and  what  bad  color  had  come  to  his  lips. 

"  Will  I  get  you  a  sup  of  water,  sir  ?  "  he 
asked  eagerly.  "  This  thing  'ont  run  away ; 
or  I  '11  just  stun  the  poor  cr'ature  a  bit  wit' 
me  fist  so  he  can't  step  foot  an'  he  tries. 
I  'm  afraid  you  're  bad  off,  sir,  so  I  am." 

"No,  no,"  said  Father  Ryan.  "Let  go 
his  arm  now." 

"I  don't  dare  lave  him  go,  sir,"  pro 
tested  Dennis. 

"  Let  go  his  arm.  Stand  out,  Dan  !  "  and 
a  strange  light  blazed  in  the  old  man's  eyes. 
Danny  Nolan,  in  his  smart,  dirty,  city-made 
clothes,  stood  out  a  step  in  front  of  Dennis, 
a  poor  wretched  image  of  a  young  man  as 


244       BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

ever  startled  the  squirrels  and  jays  of  that 
wild,  deserted  bit  of  country.  He  cast  a 
furtive  glance  to  the  right  and  left,  but  the 
old  priest  raised  a  warning  hand. 

"  No,  you  won't  run,  Dan,  my  boy,"  he 
said.  "  My  old  heart  is  ready  to  break  at 
the  sorry  sight  of  you.  Those  poor  legs  of 
yours  would  throw  you  before  you  could  run 
a  rod.  Take  out  the  money  that 's  in  your 
pockets.  Dennis,  keep  your  eye  on  him 
now.  Take  it  out,  I  say  !  " 

Father  Kyan  rose  to  his  great  height  with 
a  black  and  angry  look ;  his  years  seemed  to 
fall  off  his  shoulders  like  a  cloak,  and  Dennis 
stepped  forward  eager  for  the  fray.  The 
fellow  was  at  bay.  He  looked  for  a  moment 
as  sharp  and  ugly  as  a  weasel,  then  the  cow 
ardice  in  him  showed  itself;  he  began  to 
whimper  and  weaken,  and  so  fell  upon  his 
knees. 

"  It  is  in  the  state's  prison  that  you  ought 
to  be.  I  know  it  well,"  said  Father  Kyan 
sternly. 

"Will  I  give  him  a  nate  kick  or  two, 
your  riverence  ?  "  inquired  Dennis  suggest 
ively.  "  May  be  't  will  help  him  to  mind 
what  you  do  be  saying,  the  dirty  bla'guard." 

Danny  Nolan,  still  whimpering,  took  some- 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.       245 

thing  from  his  pocket  and  dropped  it  before 
him  on  the  turf.  "  There,  now,"  he  said, 
trying  to  be  bold,  "  let  me  go." 

"Go  through  his  pockets  yourself,  Den 
nis,"  said  the  priest,  and  he  stood  watching 
while  this  business  was  carefully  accom 
plished,  and  a  little  heap  of  counterfeit  bills 
was  gathered  at  their  feet,  which  Dennis  had 
sought  for  with  little  tenderness.  "  What 

o 

have  you  hidden  in  the  house  beside  ?  "  he 
demanded,  looking  up  in  black  rage,  as 
Danny  Nolan  stood  there,  surly  and  flushed. 

"  If  't  was  my  last  word,  I  'd  tell  you  the 
same,"  he  answered.  "  There  's  no  more  but 
this.  I  was  only  waiting  till  evening,  so 
I  'd  get  away.  There  's  two  dollars  there 
that 's  good,"  he  sulkily  added,  touching  the 
money  with  his  foot. 

"  Ye  'd  best  give  it  to  his  riverence  for  a 
collection,  then,"  Dennis  advised.  "Ain't 
you  the  dirthy  divil ! " 

"  I  've  had  awful  hard  luck,"  said  Danny, 
in  a  grieved  tone.  "  'T  was  a  man  on  the 
cars  give  me  this  "  — 

"  Why  did  n't  you  come  straight  to  those 
who  were  your  friends  ?  "  said  Father  Ryan 
sadly.  "  You  have  been  robbing  those  that 
loved  you  and  taking  their  little  earnings  — 


246       BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

you  are  a  liar  and  a  thief.  How  will  you 
face  them  now  and  go  to  them  for  food  and 
shelter  ?  Who  '11  want  to  give  you  a  day's 
work?  You  have  been  living  with  cheats 
and  liars  ;  see  what  they  have  done  for  you, 
and  how  rich  and  fine  you  come  home  to 
those  that  have  praised  you  the  length  of 
the  town.  What  do  you  mean  to  do?  " 

"They're  out  after  me;  the  officers  are 
out  after  me,  sir."  The  poor  rascal  instantly 
turned  to  his  old  friend  for  help.  "  I  can't 
stop  here  ;  't  was  the  man  that  gave  me  this 
stuff  to  get  rid  of  it  himself,  and  then  went 
and  told." 

"  You  sent  down  to  the  mills  to  some  fellows 
you  thought  bad  enough  to  buy  this  trash. 
Don't  lie  to  me,  Dan!  You  have  fallen 
into  this  sort  of  thing  by  your  own  choice. 
Come  now,  if  Dennis  and  I  will  stand  by 
you,  will  you  try  to  be  decent  and  live 
honest  ?  You  '11  be  dead  this  time  next 
year  if  you  don't,  and  there  's  God's  truth 
for  you.  I  '11  try  you  this  once  more,  God 
helping  me.  I'll  not  send  you  home  to 
those  that  are  n't  able  to  keep  you.  I  Ve  a 
little  money  put  by,  and  I '!]  lend  you  some 
thing  for  those  you  have  robbed  and  cheated 
with  your  stories  about  the  mine." 


BETWEEN  MASS.  AND   VESPERS.       247 

"  I  was  cheated  myself  in  the  first  place, 
Father  Kyan,"  said  Nolan.  Then  he  fell  to 
sobbing  and  covered  his  face  with  both  his 
hands.  "  I  've  been  bad,  you  're  right,  sir, 
but  oh,  try  me  again.  I  don't  know  what  '11 
I  do.  I  'm  starved  here,  and  every  bush 
that  rustles  turns  me  cold  these  three  nights. 
I  '11  do  the  best  I  can,  sir.  I  would  n't  have 
said  it  so  easy  yesterday,  but  I  'm  beat  to  the 
ground  now.  Everybody 's  turned  against 
me.  I  thought  some  friends  of  mine  would 
be  here  last  night "  — 

"  Come,  stand  up  an'  behave  like  a  man  !  " 
Dennis  gave  him  a  vigorous  jerk  by  way  of 
stimulant.  "  We  mane  no  harm  by  the  likes 
of  you.  Do  now  as  Father  Kyan  says,  since 
he 's  so  willing  to  try  you."  There  was 
kindliness  in  his  tone,  though  the  shake  was 
contradictory.  "I'll  stand  by  you  meself 
for  Father  Ryan's  pleasure,  but  it  goes  hard 
wit'  me  to  say  the  word." 

"  You  '11  come  to  me  this  evening  at  eight 
o'clock,"  said  the  priest.  "  I  '11  be  thinking 
what 's  best  to  do.  I  can't  stand  between 
you  and  the  laws  you  Ve  broken.  You  '11 
stay  at  my  house  the  night.  Mrs.  Dillon  '11 
be  washing  in  the  morning  ;  the  first  thing  is 
to  make  you  look  decent.  Then  I  '11  find  a 


248       BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

way  to  talk  with  your  father,  poor  honest 
man!" 

"  I  'd  as  soon  go  chop  at  Tom  Nolan  wit' 
me  ax,"  muttered  Dennis. 

The  priest  stooped  and  struck  a  match  on 
the  gray  rock  and  touched  it  to  the  counter 
feit  bills,  stirring  them  now  and  then  with 
his  foot  as  they  smouldered.  When  the  few 
ashes  began  to  blow  in  the  light  spring  wind, 
and  there  was  little  left  but  an  ugly  small 
scar  in  the  green  turf,  Father  Ryan  held  out 
his  hand  and  Danny  Nolan  tried  not  to  see 
it  and  turned  away.  The  old  priest  could 
not  help  a  sigh.  Then  the  young  man,  who 
had  known  every  sin,  threw  himself  upon 
the  mercy  of  this  merciful  old  friend.  No 
matter  if  Dennis  stood  by  with  his  aggravat 
ing  sense  of  honesty,  his  narrow  experience 
of  a  stupid  mill  town,  Dan  Nolan  caught 
hold  of  Father  Ryan's  hand  and  clung  to  it 
as  if  his  whole  heart  were  spent  in  love  and 
gratitude.  "  O  God,  help  me ;  I  '11  not  fail 
you  this  night,  sir.  'T  is  the  Lord  sent  you 
to  me,  sir.  'Tis  you  were  always  good  to 
me  when  I  was  a  little  boy  minding  the 
altar,  sir." 

"  You  were  always  great  wit'  your  fine 
words  and  your  smart  letters,"  grumbled 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.       249 

Dennis,  who  in  spite  of  himself  was  much 
affected.  If  his  own  sons  should  ever  go 
wrong,  God  send  them  such  a  friend.  "  See 
now  that  you  give  his  riverence  satisfaction 
for  all  the  trouble  he  's  taking,  and  pay  him 
back  his  money  too.  There  's  work  enough 
if  you  'd  only  be  dacint,  but  if  I  'd  hear  from 
any  of  your  tricks,  or  you  'd  be  doing  harm 
among  the  young  folks,  Lord  be  good  to  me 
but  I  'd  be  the  one  to  break  your  neck,  so  I 
would.  When  I  think  of  that  pritty  gerrl 
you  've  fooled !  " 

"  Don't  shame  the  man  any  more.  We  '11 
give  him  his  chance  to  do  better.  'T  is  God 
does  the  same  every  day  for  you  and  me," 
said  Father  Eyan. 

The  May  wind  in  the  pine  woods  was  like 
the  sound  of  the  sea  as  the  two  elder  men 
turned  away  to  go  down  the  hill,  not  once 
looking  back.  The  old  priest  left  Dan 
Nolan  behind  as  if  he  had  forgotten  him, 
and  Dennis  was  awed  into  speechlessness  as 
he  walked  alongside. 

The  sorrel  mare  was  restless.  She  had 
unwisely  browsed  the  sharp-thorned  sprout 
ing  rosebushes,  and  had  got  the  reins  tan 
gled  about  her  feet.  Father  Ryan  climbed 
into  the  carriage ;  he  began  to  feel  lame  and 


250        BETWEEN  MASS  AND    VESPERS. 

tired,  and  Dennis,  still  silent,  took  the  mare 
by  the  head  and  led  her  carefully  down  the 
steepest  part  of  the  road.  When  they  came 
to  the  lowest  slope  of  the  hill  he  got  in  and 
took  the  reins,  and  they  went  quickly  home. 
The  church-bells  began  to  ring  for  vespers 
as  they  neared  the  town. 

"  I  '11  be  a  trifle  late,  I  'm  sorry,"  said  the 
priest.  "  Leave  me  at  the  church  and  you 
go  on  with  the  mare,  Denny.  Oh,  I  'm  all 
right,  't  was  fine  and  pleasant  in  the  green 
woods.  It  seems  long  to  me  since  mass  was 


"My  saints  in  heaven,  but  ain't  he  the 
father  to  us  !  "  exclaimed  Dennis,  a  moment 
later.  He  still  felt  a  delightful  sense  of 
excitement  and  adventure,  but  after  they 
had  parted  at  the  church  something  choked 
him,  as  he  thought  of  Father  Ryan's  figure 
as  he  had  seen  him  go  along  the  little  path 
to  the  vestry,  with  that  dust  on  the  back  of 
his  coat.  As  he  came  back  to  the  church 
himself  he  overtook  Mary  O'Donnell,  who 
greeted  him  with  pleasure  and  even  curiosity, 
and  some  other  friends  made  mention  of  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  away  with  the  priest. 
The  parishioners  were  used  to  being  igno- 


BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS.       251 

rant  about  most  of  Father  Ryan's  affairs ; 
a  priest  could  never  make  talk  about  his  er 
rands  of  business  and  mercy  as  another  man 
could. 

The  warm  May  Sunday  indeed  seemed 
long.  The  vesper  service  did  not  often  attract 
Dennis  Call.  He  was  always  in  his  place 
at  mass,  but  he  took  his  Sunday  sleep  and 
stroll  in  the  afternoon.  He  made  himself 
easy  in  the  corner  of  the  pew,  he  picked 
some  pine-needles  out  of  the  cuff  of  his  coat, 
and  he  said,  a  little  grudgingly,  a  prayer  for 
Danny  Nolan.  He  noticed  that  there  was 
a  bruise  befirinninar  to  show  itself  on  the  old 

O  O 

priest's  forehead,  and  how  the  hands  trembled 
that  were  lifted  at  the  altar.  The  doctor 
had  been  known  to  say  that  Father  Ryan 
was  not  a  sound  man,  that  he  had  better  not 
take  long  walks  alone  any  more,  or  overtax 
himself  as  he  often  did,  and  Dennis  won 
dered  vaguely  if  this  were  not  the  reason  he 
had  been  called  upon  that  day  for  company. 
"  I  'd  like  to  clout  the  saucy  bla'guard  a 
couple  o'  times  more,"  he  grumbled  to  him 
self  ;  but  his  heart  was  not  without  compas 
sion.  His  own  boys  were  just  beginning  to 
put  on  the  airs  and  to  share  the  ambitions  of 
men,  and  poor  Tom  Nolan,  his  old  friend 


252       BETWEEN  MASS  AND   VESPERS. 

and  neighbor,  must  hear  sad  news  of  Danny, 
and  that  soon.  Dennis  blinked  his  sleepy 
eyes  and  looked  reverently  at  Father  Ryan's 
tall  figure  at  the  altar.  The  setting  sun 
brought  out  the  color  and  tarnished  gold 
thread  of  the  worn  vestments.  The  paper 
flowers  that  a  French  woman  had  made  new 
at  Easter  looked  gay  and  almost  real  in  the 
pleasant  light.  v 

"  'T  is  in  many  strange  places  that  a  priest 
does  be  having  to  serve  God,"  said  Dennis 
to  himself.  "  I  'm  thinking  Danny  Nolan  '11 
light  out  this  night  wit'  the  two  dollars,  an' 
we  '11  see  no  more  of  him.  Faix,  't  would 
be  best  for  him,  the  young  fool ;  the  likes  of 
him  will  break  every  heart,  stay  or  go !  " 

That  night,  however,  just  at  dark,  Dan 
Nolan  came  across  the  fields,  and  presently 
stole  out  from  a  thicket  at  the  foot  of  the 
priest's  little  garden,  and  went  into  the 
house.  The  lights  were  bright ;  there  was  a 
good  supper  on  the  table.  As  the  hungry, 
crestfallen  offender  sat  there,  abashed  by  all 
the  light  and  good  cheer,  the  old  man's  tired 
face  shone  with  golden  hopefulness.  Father 
Ryan  even  persuaded  himself  that  the  look 
of  his  own  young  brother  had  come  back 
again  into  Danny  Nolan's  eyes. 


A  LITTLE  CAPTIVE  MAID. 


THE  early  winter  twilight  was  falling  over 
the  town  of  Kenmare  ;  a  heavy  open  carriage 
with  some  belated  travelers  bounced  and 
rattled  along  the  smooth  highway,  hurrying 
toward  the  inn  and  a  night's  lodging.  Two 
slender  young  figures  drew  back  together 
into  the  leafless  hedge  by  the  roadside  and 
stood  there,  whispering  and  keeping  fast 
hold  of  hands  after  the  simple  fashion  of 
children  and  lovers.  There  was  an  empty 
bird's  nest  close  beside  them,  and  they  looked 
at  that,  and  after  they  had  watched  the 
carriage  a  moment,  and  even  laughed  because 
Dinny  Killoren,  the  driver,  had  recognized 
their  presence  by  a  loud  snap  of  his  whip, 
they  still  loitered.  The  girl  turned  away 
from  her  lover,  who  only  looked  at  her,  and 
felt  the  soft  lining  of  the  nest  with  the 
fingers  of  her  left  hand.  Johnny  Morris's 
handsome  young  face  looked  pinched  and 
sad  in  the  gray  dampness  of  the  dusk. 


254  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

"  The  poor  tidy  cr'atures !  "  said  Nora  Con 
nelly.  "  Look  now  at  their  little  house, 
Johnny,  how  nate  it  is,  and  they  gone  from 
it.  I  mind  the  birds  singing  in  the  hedge 
one  day  last  summer,  and  I  walking  by  in 
the  road." 

"  Wisha,  't  is  our  own  tidy  house  I  'm  think 
ing  of,"  said  Johnny  reproachfully  ;  "I  've 
long  dramed  of  it,  and  now  whatever  will  I 
do  and  you  gone  away  to  Ameriky  ?  Faix, 
it 's  too  hard  for  us,  Norry  dear ;  we  '11  get 
no  luck  from  your  goin'  ;  't  was  the  Lord 
mint  us  for  aich  other  ! " 

"  I  'm  safe  to  come  back,  darling,"  said 
Nora,  troubled  by  her  lover's  lamentations. 
"  'T  is  for  the  love  of  you  I  'm  going,  sure, 
Johnny  dear !  I  suppose  't  is  yourself  won't 
want  me  then  aither,  when  I  come  back ; 
sure  they  says  folks  dries  all  up  there,  and 
gets  brown  and  small  wit'  the  heat  that 's  in 
it.  Promise  now  that  you  '11  say  nothing 
sharp,  so  long  as  I  'm  fine  an'  rich  coming 
home  !  " 

"  Don't  break  me  heart,  Nora,  wit'  your 
wild  talk ;  who  else  but  yourself  would  be 
joking,  and  our  hearts  breaking  wit'  parting, 
and  this  our  last  walk  together,"  mourned 
the  young  man.  "  Come,  darling,  we  must 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  255 

be  going  on.  'Tis  a  good  way  yet  through 
the  town,  an'  your  aunt 's  ready  to  have  my 
life  now  for  not  sinding  you  back  at  t'ree 
o'clock." 

"  Let  her  wait !  "  said  Nora  scornfully. 
"  I  '11  be  free  of  her,  then,  this  time  to 
morrow.  'T  is  herself  '11  be  keenin'  after  me 
as  if  't  was  wakin'  me  she  was,  and  the  cold 
heart  of  stone  that 's  inside  her  and  no  tears 
to  her  eyes.  They  might  be  glass  buttons  in 
her  old  head,  they  might  then !  I  'd  love 
you  to  the  last  day  I  lived,  John  Morris,  if 
'twas  only  to  have  the  joke  on  her;"  and 
Nora's  eyes  sparkled  with  fun.  "  I  'd  spite 
her  if  I  could,  the  old  crow  !  Sorra  a  bit  of 
lave-takin'  have  I  got  from  her  yet,  but  to 
say  I  must  sind  home  my  passage-money 
inside  the  first  month  I  'm  out.  Oh,  but, 
Johnny,  I  '11  be  so  lonesome  there ;  't  is  a 
cold  home  I  had  since  me  mother  died,  but 
God  help  me  when  I  'in  far  from  it !  "  The 
girl  and  her  lover  were  both  crying  now; 
Johnny  kissed  her  and  put  his  arms  tenderly 
about  her,  there  where  they  stood  alone  by 
the  roadside ;  both  knew  that  the  dreaded 
hour  of  parting  had  come. 

Presently,  as  if  moved  by  the  stern  hand 
of  fate  rather  than  by  their  own  will,  they 


256  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

walked  away  along  the  road,  still  weep 
ing.  They  came  into  the  town,  where  lights 
were  bright  in  the  houses.  There  was  the 
usual  cheerful  racket  about  the  inn.  The 
Lansdowne  Arms  seemed  to  be  unusually 
populous  and  merry  for  a  winter  night. 
Somebody  called  to  Johnny  Morris  from  a 
doorway,  but  he  did  not  answer.  Close  by 
were  the  ruins  of  the  old  abbey,  and  he  drew 
Nora  with  him  between  the  two  stones  which 
made  a  narrow  entrance-way  to  the  grounds. 
It  was  dreary  enough  there  among  the  wintry 
shadows,  the  solemn  shapes  of  the  crumbling 
ruin,  and  the  rustling  trees. 

"  Tell  me  now  once  more  that  you  love 
me,  darling,"  sobbed  the  poor  lad  ;  "  you  're 
goin'  away  from  me,  Nora,  an'  'tis  you'll 
find  it  aisy  to  forget.  Everything  you  lave 
will  be  speakin'  to  me  of  you.  Oh,  Nora, 
Nora !  howiver  will  I  lave  you  go  to  Amer- 
iky!  I  was  no  man  at  all,  or  why  didn't 
I  forbid  it?  'Tis  only  I  was  too  poor  to 
keep  you  back,  God  help  me!  O  Deaf  0 
Deaf" 

"  Be  quiet  now,"  said  Nora.  "  I  '11  not  for 
get  you.  I'll  save  all  my  money  till  I'll 
come  back  to  you.  We  're  young,  dear  lad, 
sure ;  kiss  me  now  an'  say  good-by,  my  fine 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  257 

gay  lad,  and  then  walk  home  quiet  wit'  me 
through  the  town.  I  call  the  holy  saints  to 
hear  me  that  I  won't  forget." 

And  so  they  kissed  and  parted,  and  walked 
home  quiet  through  the  town  as  Nora  had 
desired.  She  stopped  here  and  there  for  a 
parting  word  with  a  friend,  and  there  was 
even  a  sense  of  dignity  and  consequence  in 
the  poor  child's  simple  heart  because  she  was 
going  to  set  forth  on  her  great  journey  the 
next  morning,  while  others  would  ignobly 
remain  in  Kenmare.  Thank  God,  she  had 
no  father  and  mother  to  undergo  the  pain 
of  seeing  her  disappear  forever  from  their 
eyes.  The  poor  heart-broken  Irish  folk  who 
let  their  young  sons  and  daughters  go  away 
from  them  to  America,  —  which  of  us  has 
stopped  half  long  enough  to  think  of  their 
sorrows  and  to  pity  them  ?  What  must  it 
be  to  see  the  little  companies  set  forth  on 
their  way  to  the  sea,  knowing  that  they  will 
return  no  more?  The  fever  for  emigration 
is  a  heart-rending  sort  of  epidemic,  and  the 
boys  and  girls  who  dream  of  riches  and  plea 
sure  until  they  are  impatient  of  their  homes  in 
poor,  beautiful  Ireland !  alas,  they  sail  away 
on  the  crowded  ships  to  find  hard  work  and 
hard  fare,  and  know  their  mistakes  about 


258  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

finding  a  fairy-land  too  late,  too  late !  And 
Nora  Connelly's  aunt  had  hated  Johnny  Mor 
ris,  and  laid  this  scheme  for  separating  them, 
under  cover  of  the  furtherance  of  Nora's 
welfare.  They  had  been  lovers  from  their 
childhood,  and  Johnny's  mother,  from  whom 
Nora  had  just  parted  on  that  last  sad  even 
ing,  was  a  sickly  woman  and  poor  as  poverty. 
Johnny  was  like  son  and  daughter  both,  he 
could  never  leave  her  while  she  lived ;  they 
had  needed  all  of  Nora's  cheerfulness  and 
love,  and  now  they  were  going  to  lose  her, 
perhaps  forever.  Everybody  knew  how  few 
come  back  from  America ;  no  wonder  that 
these  Irish  hearts  were  sad  with  parting. 

On  the  morrow  there  was  little  time  for 
leave-takings.  Some  people  tried  to  make  it 
a  day  of  jokes  and  festivities  when  such  par 
ties  of  emigrants  left  the  country-side,  but 
there  was  always  too  much  sadness  under 
neath  the  laughter ;  and  the  chilly  rain  fell 
that  day  as  if  Ireland  herself  wept  for  her 
wandering  children,  —  poor  Ireland,  who 
gives  her  best  to  the  great  busy  countries 
over  seas,  and  longs  for  the  time  when  she 
can  be  rich  and  busy  herself,  and  keep  the 
young  people  at  home  and  happy  in  field 


A  LITTLE  CAPTIVE  MAID.     259 

and  town.  What  does  the  foreign  money 
cost  that  conies  back  to  the  cottage  house 
holds  broken  as  if  by  death?  What  does 
it  cost  to  the  aching  hearts  of  fathers  and 
mothers,  to  the  homesick  lads  and  girls  in 
America,  with  the  cold  Atlantic  between 
them  and  home  ? 


II. 


The  winter  day  was  clear  and  cold,  with 
a  hint  of  coming  spring  in  the  blue  sky. 
As  you  came  up  Barry  Street,  the  main 
thoroughfare  of  a  thriving  American  town, 
you  could  not  help  noticing  the  thick  elm 
branches  overhead,  and  the  long  rows  of 
country  horses  and  sleighs  before  the  stores, 
and  a  general  look  of  comfortably  mingled 
country  and  city  life. 

The  high-storied  offices  and  warehouses 
came  to  an  end  just  where  the  hill  began  to 
rise,  and  on  the  slope,  to  the  left,  was  a  ter 
raced  garden  planted  thick  with  fruit-trees 
and  flowering  shrubbery.  Above  this  stood 
a  large,  old-fashioned  white  house  close  to  the 
street.  At  first  sight  one  was  pleased  with 
its  look  of  comfort  and  provincial  elegance, 


260  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

but  as  you  approached,  the  whole  lower 
story  seemed  unused.  If  you  glanced  up  at 
a  window  of  the  second  story,  you  were  likely 
to  see  an  elderly  gentleman  looking  out,  pale 
and  unhappy,  as  if  invalidism  and  its  en 
forced  idleness  were  peculiarly  hard  for  him 
to  bear.  Sometimes  you  might  catch  sight 
of  the  edge  of  a  newspaper,  but  there  was 
never  a  book  in  his  hand,  there  was  never 
a  child's  face  looking  out  to  companion  the 
old  man.  People  always  spoke  of  poor  old 
Captain  Balfour  nowadays,  but  only  a  few 
months  before,  he  had  been  the  leading  busi 
ness  man  of  the  city,  absorbed  in  a  dozen 
different  enterprises.  A  widower  and  child 
less,  he  felt  himself  to  be  alone  indeed  in  this 
time  of  illness  and  despondency.  Early  in 
life  he  had  followed  the  sea,  from  choice,  not 
necessity,  but  for  many  years  he  had  been 
master  of  the  old  house  and  garden  on  Barry 
Street,  his  inherited  home.  People  always 
spoke  of  him  with  deference  and  respect, 
they  pitied  him  now  in  his  rich  and  pitiful 
old  age.  In  the  early  autumn  a  stroke  of 
paralysis  had  dulled  and  disabled  him,  and 
its  effect  was  more  and  more  puzzling,  and 
irritating  beside  to  the  captain's  pride. 
He  more  and  more  insisted  upon  charging 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  261 

his  long  captivity  and  uncomfortable  condi 
tion  at  the  doors  of  his  medical  advisers  and 
the  household.  At  first,  in  dark  and  gloomy 
weather,  or  in  days  of  unusual  depression,  a 
running  fire  of  comments  was  kept  up  toward 
those  who  treated  him  like  a  child,  and  who 
made  an  apothecary's  shop  of  his  stomach, 
and  kept  him  upon  such  incomprehensible 
diet.  A  slice  of  salt  beef  and  a  captain's 
biscuit  were  indignantly  demanded  at  these 
times,  but  it  was  touching  to  observe  that 
the  person  in  actual  attendance  was  always 
treated  with  extreme  consideration  or  even 
humble  gratitude,  while  the  offenders  were 
always  absent.  "  They  "  were  guilty  of  all 
the  wrongs  and  kept  the  captain  miserable ; 
they  were  impersonal  foes  of  his  peace ;  there 
never  was  anything  but  a  kind  word  for  Mrs. 
Nash,  the  housekeeper,  or  Reilly,  the  faithful 
attendant;  there  never  were  any  personal 
rebukes  administered  to  the  cook ;  and  as  for 
the  doctor,  Captain  Balfour  treated  him  as 
one  gentleman  should  treat  another. 

Until  early  in  January,  when  once  in  a 
while  even  the  hitherto  respected  Mrs.  Nash 
was  directly  accused  of  a  total  lack  of  judg 
ment,  and  James  Reilly  could  not  do  or  say 
anything  to  suit,  and  the  lives  of  these  honest 


262  A  LITTLE    CAPTIVE  MAID. 

persons  became  nearly  unbearable  ;  the  maid 
under  Mrs.  Nash's  charge  (for  the  household 
had  always  been  kept  up  exactly  as  in  Mrs. 
Balfour's  day)  could  not  be  expected  to 
consider  the  captain's  condition  and  her 
own  responsibilities  as  his  older  and  deeply 
attached  companions  could,  and,  tired  of  the 
dullness  and  idleness  of  the  old  house,  fell 
to  that  state  where  dismissal  was  inevitable. 
Then  neither  Mrs.  Nash  nor  Reilly  knew 
what  to  do  next ;  they  were  not  as  young  as 
they  had  been,  and,  to  use  their  own  words, 
minded  the  stairs.  At  last  Reilly,  a  sen 
sible  man,  proposed  a  change  in  the  order  of 
housekeeping.  The  captain  might  never 
come  downstairs  any  more ;  they  could  shut 
up  the  dining-room  and  the  parlors,  and 
make  their  daily  work  much  lighter. 

"  An'  I  won't  say  that  I  have  n't  got  word 
for  you  of  a  tidy  little  girl,"  said  Reilly,  be 
seechingly.  "  She  's  a  relation  to  my  cousins 
the  Donahues,  and  as  busy  as  a  sparrow. 
She  '11  work  beside  you  an'  the  cook  like 
your  own  shild,  she  will  that,  Mrs.  Nash, 
and  is  a  light-hearted  shild  the  day  through. 
She  's  just  over  too,  the  little  greenhorn !  " 

"  Perhaps  she  '11  be  just  what  we  want, 
Reilly,"  agreed  the  housekeeper,  after  reflec- 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  263 

tion.     "  Send   her   up   to  see  me  this  very 
evening,  if  you  're  going  where  she  is." 

So  the  very  next  day,  into  the  desolate  old 
house  came  young  Nora  Connelly,  a  true 
child  of  the  old  country,  with  a  laughing 
gray  eye  and  a  smooth  girlish  cheek,  and  a 
pretty  touch  of  gold  at  the  edge  of  the  fair 
brown  hair  about  her  forehead.  It  was  a 
serious  little  face,  not  beautiful,  except  in 
its  delightful  girlishness.  She  was  a  friendly, 
kindly  little  creature,  fond  of  her  simple 
pleasures,  and  willing  to  work  hard  the  day 
through.  The  great  house  itself  was  a  trea 
sure-house  of  new  experience,  and  she  felt 
her  position  in  the  captain's  family  to  be  a 
valued  promotion. 

One  morning,  life  looked  very  dark  to 
the  master.  Everything  had  been  going 
wrong  since  breakfast,  and  the  captain  rang 
for  Keilly  when  he  had  just  gone  out,  and 
Mrs.  Nash  was  busy  with  a  messenger. 

"  Go  up,  will  you,  Nora  ? "  she  said 
anxiously,  "  and  say  that  I  '11  be  there  in  a 
minute.  Keilly 's  just  left  him." 

And  Nora  sped  away,  nothing  loath  ;  she 
had  never  taken  a  satisfactory  look  at  the 
master,  and  this  was  the  fourth  day  since 
she  had  come  to  the  house. 


264  A  LITTLE    CAPTIVE  MAID. 

She  opened  the  door  and  saw  a  handsome, 
fretful,  tired  old  gentleman,  whose  news 
paper  had  slipped  from  his  hand  and  gone 
out  of  reach.  She  hurried  to  pick  it  up, 
without  being  told. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  inquired  the  captain, 
looking  at  her  with  considerable  interest. 

"  Nora  Connelly,  sir,"  said  the  girl  in  a 
delicious  Irish  voice.  "  I  'm  your  new  maid, 
sir,  since  Winsday.  I  feel  very  sorry  for 
your  bein'  ill,  sir." 

"  There  's  nothing  the  matter  with  me," 
growled  the  captain  unexpectedly. 

"Wisha,  sir,  I'm  glad  of  that!"  said 
Nora,  with  a  wag  of  her  head  like  a  bird,  and 
a  light  in  her  eye.  "  Mrs.  Nash  '11  be  here 
at  once,  sir,  for  your  ordhers.  She  is  daling 
wit'  a  boy  below  in  the  hall.  You  are  look 
ing  fine  an'  comfortable  the  day,  sir." 

"  I  never  was  so  uncomfortable  in  my 
life,"  said  the  captain.  "  You  can  open  that 
window." 

"  And  it  snowing  fast,  sir  ?  You  '11  let 
out  all  the  fine  heat ;  heat 's  very  dear  now 
and  cold  is  cheap,  so  it  is,  with  poor  folks. 
'T  is  a  great  pity  you  've  no  turfs  now  to 
keep  your  fire  in  for  you.  'T  is  very  strange 
there  do  be  no  turf  in  this  f  oine  country ; " 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  265 

and  she  looked  at  the  captain  with  a  winning 
smile.  The  captain  smiled  back  again  in 
spite  of  himself. 

Nora  stood  looking  out  of  the  window; 
she  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  herself  instead 
of  the  invalid. 

"What  did  you  say  your  name  was?" 
asked  the  old  gentleman,  a  moment  later, 
frowning  his  eyebrows  at  her  like  pieces  of 
artillery. 

"  Plase,  sir,  I  'in  Nora  Connelly,  from 
the  outside  o'  Kenmare."  She  made  him 
the  least  bit  of  a  courtesy,  as  if  a  sudden 
wind  had  bent  her  like  a  long-stemmed 
flower. 

"  How  came  you  here  ?  "  His  mouth 
straightened  into  a  smile  as  he  spoke,  in 
spite  of  a  determination  to  be  severe. 

"  I  'm  but  two  weeks  over,  sir.  I  come 
over  to  me  cousins,  the  Donahues,  seeking 
me  fortune.  I  'd  like  Ameriky,  'tis  a  fine 
place,  sir,  but  I  'm  very  homesick  intirely. 
I  'm  as  fast  to  be  going  back  as  I  was  to  be 
coming  away;"  and  she  gave  a  soft  sigh  and 
turned  away  to  brush  the  hearth. 

"  Well,  you  must  be  a  good  girl,"  said 
the  captain,  with  great  propriety,  after  a 
pause. 


266  A  LITTLE    CAPTIVE  MAID. 

"  'Deed,  sir,  I  am  that,"  responded  Nora 
sincerely.  "  No  one  had  a  word  to  fling 
af ther  me  and  I  coming  away,  but  crying 
afther  me.  Nobody  '11  tell  anything  to  my 
shame  when  my  name  '11  be  spoke  at  home. 
My  mother  brought  me  up  well,  God  save 
her,  she  did,  then  !  " 

This  unaffected  report  of  her  own  good 
reputation  was  pleasing  to  Nora's  employer ; 
the  sight  of  Nora's  simple,  pleasant  Irish 
face  and  the  freshness  of  her  youth  was  the 
most  delightful  thing  that  had  happened  in 
many  a  dreary  day.  He  felt  in  his  waist 
coat  pocket  with  sudden  inipulse,  sure  of 
finding  a  bit  of  money  there  with  which 
Nora  Connelly  might  buy  herself  a  ribbon. 
He  was  strongly  inclined  toward  making  her 
feel  at  home  in  the  old  house  which  had 
grown  to  be  such  a  prison  to  himself.  But 
there  was  no  money  in  the  pocket,  as  there 
always  used  to  be  when  he  was  well.  He 
had  not  needed  any  before  in  a  long  time. 
He  began  to  fret  about  this,  and  to  wonder 
what  they  had  done  with  his  pocket-book ;  it 
was  ignominious  to  be  treated  like  a  school 
boy.  While  he  brooded  over  his  wrongs, 
Nora  heard  Mrs.  Nash's  hurrying  footsteps 
in  the  hall,  but  as  she  slipped  away  it  was 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  267 

plain  that  she  had  found  time  enough  to  be 
stow  her  entire  sympathy,  and  even  affection, 
upon  the  captain  in  this  brief  interview. 

"  He  's  dull,  poor  gentleman,  —  he 's  very 
sad  all  day  by  himself,  and  so  pleasant  spo 
ken,  the  cr'ature  !  "  she  said  to  herself  indig 
nantly,  as  she  went  running  down  the  stairs. 

It  was  not  long  before,  to  everybody's 
surprise,  Captain  Balfour  gained  strength, 
and  began  to  feel  so  much  better  that  Nora 
was  often  posted  in  the  room  or  the  hall  close 
by  to  run  his  frequent  errands  and  pick  up 
his  newspapers  as  they  fell.  This  gave  Mrs. 
Nash  and  Reilly  a  chance  to  look  after  their 
other  business  affairs,  and  to  take  their  ease 
after  so  long  a  season  of  close  attendance. 
The  captain  had  a  gruff  way  of  asking, 
"  Where  's  that  little  girl  ?  "  as  if  he  only 
wished  to  see  her  to  scold  roundly  ;  and  Nora 
was  always  ready  to  come  with  her  sewing  or 
any  bit  of  housework  that  could  be  carried, 
and  to  entertain  her  master  by  the  hour. 
The  more  irritable  his  temper,  the  more  un 
conscious  and  merry  she  always  seemed. 

"  I  was  down  last  night  wit'  me  cousins,  so 
I  was,"  she  informed  him  one  morning,  while 
she  brushed  up  the  floor  about  the  fireplace 


268  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

on  her  hands  and  knees.  "  You  'd  ought  to 
see  her  little  shild,  sir ;  indade  she  's  the 
darling  cr'ature.  I  never  saw  any  one  so 
crabbed  and  smart  for  the  size  of  her.  She 
ain't  the  heighth  of  a  bee's  knee,  sir  !  " 

"Who  isn't?"  inquired  the  captain  ab 
sently,  attracted  for  the  moment  by  the 
pleasing  simile. 

"  Me  cousin's  little  shild,  sir,"  answered 
Nora  appealingly,  with  a  fear  that  she  had 
failed  in  her  choice  of  a  subject.  "  'T  is  no 
more  than  the  heighth  of  a  bee's  knee  she  is, 
the  colleen,  and  has  every  talk  to  you  like  a 
little  grandmother,  —  the  big  words  of  her 
haves  to  come  sideways  out  of  her  mouth. 
I  'd  like  it  well  if  her  mother  would  dress  her 
up  prertty,  and  I  'd  go  fetch  her  for  you  to 
see." 

The  captain  made  an  expressive  sound 
of  disdain,  and  Nora  brushed  away  at  the  rug 
in  silence.  He  looked  out  of  the  window 
and  drummed  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  It 
was  a  very  uncomfortable  morning.  There 
was  a  noise  in  the  street,  and  Nora  pricked 
up  her  ears  with  her  head  alert  like  a  young 
hare,  stood  up  on  her  knees,  and  listened. 

"  I  '11  warrant  it 's  me  heart's  darling  toot 
ing  at  the  fife,"  she  exclaimed. 


A  LITTLE  CAPTIVE  MAID.     269 

"  Nothing  but  a  parcel  of  boys,"  grumbled 
the  captain. 

"  Faix  it 's  he,  then,  the  dacint  lad  !  "  said 
Nora,  by  this  time  close  to  the  other  front 
window.  "  Look  at  him  now,  sir,  goin'  by ! 
He  's  alther-b'y  in  the  church,  and  a  lovely 
voice  in  him.  Me  cousins  is  going  to  have 
him  learn  music.  That 's  '  The  girl  I  left 
behind  me,'  he  's  got  in  the  old  fife  now." 

"  Hard  to  tell  what  it  is,"  growled  the  cap 
tain.  "Anything  for  a  racket,  I  dare  say." 

"  Faix,  sir,  I  was  thinking  meself  the  tune 
come  out  of  it  tail  first,"  agreed  Nora  with 
ready  sympathy.  "  He 's  the  big  brother 
to  the  little  sisther  I  told  you  of  just  now. 
'T  was  Dan  Sullivan  gave  Johnny  the  old 
fife  ;  himself  used  to  play  it  in  a  company. 
There 's  a  kay  or  two  gone,  I  'm  misthrusting; 
anyway  there  's  teeth  gone  in  the  tune." 

Nora  was  again  brushing  the  floor  indus 
triously.  The  captain  was  listless  and  mis 
erable  ;  the  silence  vexed  him  even  more 
than  the  harmless  prattle. 

"  I  used  to  play  the  flute  pretty  well  my 
self  when  I  was  a  young  man,"  he  said 
pleasantly,  after  a  while. 

"  I  'd  like  well  to  hear  you,  then,  sir," 
said  Nora  enthusiastically.  She  was  only 


270  A  LITTLE  CAPTIVE  MAID. 

making  an  excuse  of  the  brushing  to  linger 
with  him  a  little  while.  "  Oh,  but  your 
honor  would  have  liked  to  hear  me  mother 
sing.  God  give  her  rest,  but  she  had  the 
lovely  voice  for  you!  They'd  be  sinding 
for  her  from  three  towns  away  to  sing  with 
the  fiddle  for  weddings  and  dances.  If  you  'd 
hear  her  sing  the  '  Pride  of  Glencoe  '  't  would 
take  the  heart  out  of  you,  it  would  indade." 

"  My  wife  was  a  most  beautiful  singer 
when  she  was  young.  I  like  to  hear  a  pretty 
voice,"  said  the  captain  sadly. 

"  'T  was  me  dear  mother  had  it,  then,"  an 
swered  Nora.  "  I  do  be  often  minding  her 
singing  when  I  'm  falling  asleep.  I  hear 
her  voice  very  plain  sometimes.  My  mother 
was  from  the  north,  sir,  and  she  had  tunes 
that  did  n't  be  known  to  the  folks  about 
Kenmare.  '  Inniskillen  Dragoon '  was  one 
of  the  best  liked,  and  it  went  lovely  with 
the  wheel  when  she  'd  be  spinning.  Every 
body  'd  be  calling  for  her  to  sing  that  tune. 
Strangers  would  come  and  ask  her  for  a 
song  that  were  passing  through  the  town. 
There  was  great  talk  always  of  me  mother's 
singing ;  they  'd  know  of  her  for  twinty  miles 
round.  Whin  I  see  the  fire  gone  down  in 
red  coals  like  this,  like  our  turf  at  home, 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  271 

and  it  does  be  growing  dark,  I  remimber  well 
't  was  such  times  she  'd  sing  like  a  bird  for 
us,  being  through  her  long  day's  work,  an' 
all  of  us  round  the  fire  kaping  warm  if  we 
could,  a  winter  night.  Oh,  but  she  'd  sing 
then  like  a  lark  in  the  fields,  God  rest  her !  " 
Nora  brushed  away  a  tear  and  blessed 
herself.  "tYou  'd  like  well  to  hear  me  mo 
ther  sing,  sir,  I  'm  telling  you  God's  truth," 
she  said  simply.  And  the  old  captain 
watched  her  and  smiled,  as  if  he  were  will 
ing  to  hear  more. 

O 

"  Folks  would  pay  her  well,  too.  They  'd 
all  be  afraid  she  'd  stop  when  she  'd  once  be 
gin.  There  was  nobody  but  herself  could 
sing  with  the  fiddle.  I  mind  she  came  home 
one  morning  when  she  'd  been  sint  for  to  a 
great  wedding,  —  't  was  a  man's  only  daugh 
ter  that  owned  his  own  land.  And  me  mother 
came  home  to  us  wit'  a  collection  of  twilve 
and  eight-pince  tied  up  in  her  best  apron 
corner.  We'd  as  good  as  a  wedding  our 
selves  out  of  it  too  ;  't  was  she  had  the  spind- 
ing  hand,  the  cr'ature  ;  and  we  had  a  roast 
goose  that  same  night  and  asked  frinds  to 
it.  Folks  don't  have  the  good  fun  here 
they  has  in  the  old  counthry,  sir,  so  they 
don't." 


272  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

"  There  used  to  be  good  times  here,"  said 
the  poor  old  captain. 

"  I  'm  thinking  't  would  be  a  dale  the  bet 
ter  if  you  wint  and  stayed  for  a  while  over 
there,"  urged  the  girl  affectionately.  "  It  '11 
soon  be  comin'  green  and  illigant  while  it 's 
winther  here  still ;  the  gorse  '11  be  blooming, 
sir,  and  the  little  daisies  thick  under  your 
two  feet,  and  you  'd  be  sitting  out  in  the 
warm  rain  and  sun,  and  feeling  the  good  of 
the  ground.  If  you  'd  go  to  Grlengariff,  I 
think  you  'd  be  soon  well,  I  do,  then,  Cap 
tain  Balfour,  your  honor,  sir." 

"  I  'm  too  old,  Nora,"  replied  the  captain 
dismally,  but  not  without  interest. 

"  Sure  there  ain't  a  boy  in  the  town  that 
has  the  spark  in  his  eye  like  yourself,  sir," 
responded  Nora,  with  encouraging  hearti 
ness.  "  I  'd  break  away  from  these  sober  old 
folks  and  the  docthers  and  all,  and  take  ship, 
and  you  'd  be  soon  over  the  say,  and  live  like 
a  lord  in  the  first  cabin;  and  you  'd  land  aisy 
on  the  tinder  in  the  cove  o'  Cork,  and  slape 
that  night  in  the  city,  and  go  next  day  to 
the  Eccles  Hotel  in  Glengariff.  Oh,  wisha, 
the  fine  place  it  is  wit'  the  say  f  orninst  the 
garden  wall.  You  'd  get  a  swim  in  the 
clane  salt  wather,  and  be  as  light  as  a  bird. 


A  LITTLE  CAPTIVE  MAID.      273 

Sure  I  wouldn't  be  tased  wit'  so  much 
docthoring  and  advising,  and  you  none  the 
betther  wit'  it." 

"  Why  could  n't  I  have  a  swim  in  the  sea 
here?"  inquired  the  captain  indulgently. 

"  Sure,  it  would  n't  be  the  same  at  all," 
responded  Nora,  with  contempt.  "  'T  is  the 
sayshore  of  the  old  country  will  do  you  the 
most  good.  The  say  is  very  salt  entirely 
by  Glengariff;  the  bay  runs  up  to  it,  and 
you  'd  get  a  strong  boatman  would  row  you 
up  and  down,  and  you  'd  walk  in  the  green 
lanes,  and  the  folks  in  the  houses  would 
give  you  good-day  ;  and  if  you  'd  be  afther 
givin'  old  Mother  Casey  a  trippence,  she  'd 
down  on  her  two  little  knees  and  pray  for 
your  honor  till  you  'd  be  running  home  like 
a  light-horseman." 

The  old  man  laughed  heartily  for  the  first 
time  that  day.  "  I  used  to  be  the  fastest 
runner  of  any  lad  in  school,"  he  said,  with 
pride. 

"  Sure  you  might  thry  it  again,  wit'  Mrs. 
Casey's  kind  help,  sir,"  insisted  the  girl. 
"  Now  go  to  Gleiigariff  this  next  month  o' 
May,  sir,  do !  " 

"  Perhaps  I  will,"  said  the  captain  de 
cidedly.  "  I  'm  not  going  to  keep  up  this 


274  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

sort  of  tiling  much  longer,  I  can  tell  them 
that !  If  they  can't  do  me  any  good,  they 
may  say  so,  and  I  '11  steer  my  own  course. 
That 's  a  good  idea  about  the  salt  water." 

The  old  man  fell  into  a  pleasant  sleep, 
with  a  contented  smile  on  his  face.  The  fire 
flickered  and  snapped,  and  Nora  sat  still 
looking  into  it ;  her  thoughts  were  far  away. 
Perhaps  her  unkind  aunt  would  find  means 
to  stop  the  letters  between  Johnny  Morris 
and  herself.  Oh,  if  her  mother  were  only 
alive,  if  the  scattered  household  were  once 
more  together !  It  would  be  a  long  time  at 
this  rate,  before  she  could  go  back  to  Johnny 
with  a  hundred  pounds. 

The  fire  settled  itself  together  and  sent 
up  a  bright  blaze.  The  old  man  opened  his 
eyes  and  looked  bewildered ;  she  stepped 
quickly  to  his  side.  "  You  '11  be  askin'  for 
Mr.  Reilly?"  she  said. 

"No,  no,"  responded  the  captain  firmly. 
"  What  was  the  name  of  that  place  you  were 
talking  about  ?  " 

"  Whiddy  Island,  sir,  where  me  father 
was  born  ?  "  Nora's  thoughts  had  wandered 
far  and  wide ;  she  was  thinking  that  she  had 
heard  that  land  was  cheap  on  Whiddy  and 
the  fishing  fine.  She  and  Johnny  had  often 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  275 

thought  they  might  do  better  than  in  Ken- 
mare. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  captain  again,  sternly. 

"Oh,  Glengariff,"  she  exclaimed.  "Yes, 
sir,  we  were  talking  "  — 

"  That 's  it,"  responded  the  captain  com 
placently.  "  I  should  like  to  know  some 
thing  more  about  the  place." 

"  I  was  never  in  it  but  twice,"  exclaimed 
Nora,  "  but  't  was  lovely  there  intirely.  My 
father  got  work  at  fishin',  and  't  was  one 
summer  we  left  Kenmare  and  went  to  a  place, 
Baltimore  was  the  name,  beyond  Glengariff 
itself,  toward  the  illigant  town  of  Bantry,  sir. 
I  saw  Bantry,  sir,  when  I  was  young.  We 
were  all  alive  and  together  then,  my  father 
and  mother  and  all  of  us ;  the  old  shebeen 
we  lived  in  looked  like  the  skull  of  a  house, 
it  was  so  old,  and  the  roof  falling  in  on  us, 
but  thank  God,  we  were  happy  in  it.  Oh, 
Ireland  's  the  lovely  counthry,  sir." 

"  No  bad  people  at  all  there  ?  "  asked  the 
captain,  looking  at  her  kindly. 

"  Oh,  sir,  there  are  then,"  said  the  little 
maid  regretfully.  "  I  have  sins  upon  my 
own  soul,  truth  I  have,  sir.  The  sin  of  stal 
ing  was  my  black  shame  when  I  was  growing 
up,  then." 


276  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

"  What  did  you  ever  steal,  child? "  asked 
the  captain. 

"  Mostly  eggs,  sir,"  said  Nora  humbly. 

"  I  dare  say  you  were  hungry,"  said  the 
old  man,  taking  up  his  newspaper  and  pre 
tending  to  frown  at  the  shipping-list. 

"  Oh,  no,  captain,  't  was  not  that  always. 
I  used  to  follow  an  old  spickled  hen  of  my 
mother's  and  wait  for  the  egg.  I  'd  track 
her  within  the  furze,  and  when  I  'd  be  two 
days  gettin'  two  eggs  I  'd  run  wit'  'em  to 
sell  'em,  and  't  was  to  buy  things  to  sew  for 
me  doll  I  'd  spind  the  money.  I  'd  ought 
to  make  confission  for  it  now,  too.  I  'm 
ashamed,  thinkin'  of  it.  And  the  spickled 
hen  was  one  that  laid  very  large  white  eggs 
intirely,  and  whiles  my  poor  mother  would  be 
missing,  them  and  thinking  the  old  hen  was 
no  good  and  had  best  be  killed,  the  honest 
cr'ature,  and  go  to  market  that  way  when 
poulthry  was  dear.  I  'd  like  one  of  her  eggs 
now  to  boil  it  myself  for  you,  sir  ;  't  would 
be  fine  atin'  for  you  coming  right  in  from 
some  place  under  the  green  bushes.  I  think 
that  hen  long  's  dead,  I  did  n't  see  her  a  long 
while  before  I  was  lavin'.  A  woman  called 
Johanna  Spillane  bought  her  from  my  aunt 
when  my  mother  was  dead.  She  was  a  very 
honest,  good  hen  ;  a  top-knot  hen,  sir." 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  277 

k'  I  dare  say,"  said  the  captain,  looking  at 
at  his  newspaper ;  he  did  not  know  why  the 
simple  chatter  touched  and  pleased  him  so. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  moved  about 
in  his  easy- chair,  frowned  still  more  at  the 
shipping-list,  and  so  got  the  better  of  his 
emotion. 

"I  see  that  the  old  brig  Miranda  has  gone 
ashore  on  the  Florida  Keys,"  he  said,  as 
if  speaking  to  a  large  audience  of  retired 
shipmasters.  "  Stove  her  bows,  rigging 
cut  loose  and  washed  overboard ;  total  wreck. 
I  suppose  you  never  saw  a  wreck  ?  "  He 
turned  and  regarded  Nora  affectionately. 

"  I  did,  sir,  then,"  said  Nora  Connelly, 
flushing  with  satisfaction.  "  We  got  news  of 
it  one  morning  early,  and  all  trooped  to  the 
shore,  every  grown  person  and  child  in  the 
place,  laving  out  Mother  Dolan,  the  ould 
lady  that  had  no  use  of  her  two  legs ;  and 
all  the  women,  me  mother  and  all,  took 
their  babies  to  her  and  left  them,  and  she 
entreatin'  —  you  'd  hear  the  bawls  of  her  a 
mile  away  —  that  some  of  the  folks  would 
take  her  wit'  'em  on  their  backs  to  see  what 
would  she  get  wit'  the  rest  ;  but  we  left  her 
screechin'  wit'  all  the  poor  shilder,  and  I  was 
there  with  the  first,  and  the  sun  coming  up, 


278  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

and  the  ship  breaking  up  fine  out  a  little 
way  in  the  rocks.  'T  was  loaded  with  sweet 
oranges  she  was,  and  they  all  comin'  ashore 
like  yellow  ducklings  in  the  high  wather.  I 
got  me  fill  for  once,  I  did,  indeed." 

"  Dear,  dear,"  said  the  captain.  "  Did  the 
crew  get  ashore  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  belave  not,  sir,  but  I  could  n't 
rightly  say.  I  was  small,  and  I  took  no  no 
tice.  I  mind  there  were  strangers  round 
that  day,  but  sailors  or  the  nixt  parish  was 
one  to  me  then.  The  tide  was  going  out 
soon,  and  then  we  swarmed  aboard,  and 
wisha,  the  old  ship  tipped  up  wit'  us  in  it, 
and  I  thought  I  was  killed.  'T  was  a  foine 
vessel,  all  gilded  round  the  cabin  walls,  and 
I  thought  in  vain  't  would  be  one  like  her 
comin'  to  Ameriky.  There  was  wines 
aboard,  too,  and  all  the  men  got  their  fill. 
Mesilf  was  gatherin'  me  little  petticoat  full 
of  oranges  that  bobbed  in  the  wather  in  the 
downside  of  the  deck.  Wisha,  sir,  the 
min  were  pushin'  me  and  the  other  shil- 
der  into  the  wather  ;  they  were  very  soon 
tight,  sir,  and  my  own  father  was  wit'  'em, 
God  rest  his  soul!  and  his  cheeks  as  red 
as  two  roses.  Some  busybody  caught  him 
ashore  and  took  him  to  the  magistrate,— 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  279 

that  was  the  squire  of  our  place,  sir,  and 
an  illigant  gentleman.  The  bliguards  was 
holdiri'  my  father,  and  I  running  along, 
screechin'  for  fear  he  'd  be  goin'  to  jail  on 
me.  The  old  squire  began  to  laugh,  poor 
man,  when  he  saw  who  it  was,  and  says  he, 
4 Is  it  yoursilf,  Davy?'  and  says  my  father, 
4  It 's  mesilf ,  God  save  your  honor,  very  tight 
intirely,  and  feelin'  as  foine  as  any  lord  in 
Ireland.  Lave  me  go,  and  I  '11  soon  slape 
it  off  under  the  next  furze-bush  that  '11  stop 
still  long  enough  for  me  by  the  roadside,' 
says  he.  The  squire  says,  '  Lave  him  go, 
boys,  't  was  from  his  ating  the  oranges  ! '  says 
he,  and  the  folks  give  a  great  laugh  all  round. 
He  was  doiii'  no  harrum,  the  poor  man  !  I 
run  away  again  to  the  say,  then ;  I  forget 
was  there  any  more  happened  that  day." 

"  She  must  have  been  a  fruiter  from  the 
Mediterranean.  I  can't  think  what  she  was 
doing  up  there  on  the  west  coast,  out  of  her 
bearings,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Faix,  sir,  I  could  n't  tell  you  where  she 
was  from,  if  it  's  the  ship  you  mane ;  but 
she  wint  no  further  than  our  parish  and  the 
Black  Rocks.  I  heard  tell  of  plinty  other 
foine  wrecks,  but  I  was  to  that  mesilf." 


280  A  LITTLE  CAPTIVE  MAID. 


III. 

The  lengthening  days  of  late  winter  went 
slowly  by,  and  at  last  it  was  spring,  and  the 
windows  were  left  open  all  day  in  the  cap 
tain's  room.  The  household  had  accepted 
the  fact  that  nobody  pleased  the  invalid  as 
Nora  did,  and  there  was  no  feeling  of  jeal 
ousy  ;  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  grateful 
to  any  one  who  could  invariably  spread  the 
oil  of  sympathy  and  kindness  over  such 
troubled  waters.  James  Reilly  and  Mrs. 
Nash  often  agreed  upon  the  fact  that  the 
captain  kept  all  the  will  he  ever  had,  but 
little  of  the  good  judgment.  Yet,  in  spite  of 
this  they  took  it  upon  them  to  argue  with 
him  upon  every  mistaken  point.  Nora  alone 
had  the  art  of  giving  a  wide  berth  to  danger 
ous  subjects  of  conversation,  and  she  could 
twist  almost  every  sort  of  persistence  or 
aggravation  into  a  clever  joke.  She  had 
grown  very  fond  of  the  lonely  old  man  ;  the 
instinct  toward  mother liness  in  her  simple 
heart  was  always  ready  to  shelter  him  from 
his  fancied  wrongs,  and  to  quiet  him  in  the 
darkest  hours  of  f retfulness  and  pain. 

Young  Nora  Connelly's  face  had  grown 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  281 

thin  daring  the  long  winter,  and  she  lost  the 
pretty  color  from  her  cheeks  as  spring  came 
on.  She  was  used  to  the  mild  air  of  Ireland, 
and  to  an  out-of-door  life,  and  she  could  not 
feel  like  herself  in  the  close  rooms  of  Cap 
tain  Balfour's  house  on  Barry  Street.  By 
the  time  that  the  first  daffodils  were  in  bloom 
on  the  south  terrace,  she  longed  inexpres 
sibly  for  the  open  air,  and  used  to  disappear 
from  even  the  captain's  sight  into  the  garden, 
where  at  times  she  took  her  turn  with  the 
gardeners  at  spading  up  the  rich  soil,  and 
worked  with  a  zeal  which  put  to  shame  their 
languid  efforts.  Something  troubled  the 
girl,  however ;  she  looked  older  and  less 
happy ;  sometimes  it  was  very  plain  to  see 
that  she  had  been  crying. 

One  morning,  when  she  had  been  delayed 
unusually  with  her  downstairs  work,  the  cap 
tain  grew  so  impatient  that  he  sent  Eeilly 
away  to  find  her.  Nora  quickly  set  down  a 
silver  candlestick,  and  wiped  her  powdery 
hands  upon  her  apron  as  she  ran  upstairs. 
The  captain  was  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  scowling  like  a  pirate  in  a  picture- 
book,  and  even  when  Nora  came  in,  he  did 
not  smile.  "  I  'm  going  out  to  take  a  walk," 
he  said  angrily. 


282  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

"  Come  on,  then,  sir,"  said  Nora.  "  I  '11 
run  for  your  coat  and  hat,  if  you  '11  tell  me 
where  "  — 

"Pooh,  pooh,  child!"  —  the  pacified  cap 
tain  was  smiling  broadly.  "  I  only  want  to 
take  a  couple  of  turns  here  in  the  hall.  You 
forget  how  long  I  've  been  house-bound. 
I  'm  a  good  deal  better ;  I  '11  have  that  med 
dling  Reilly  know  it,  too ;  and  I  won't  be  told 
what  I  may  do  and  what  I  may  not." 

"  'T  is  thrue  for  you,  sir,"  said  Nora  ami 
ably.  "  Steady  yourself  with  my  arrum,  now, 
and  we  11  go  to  the  far  end  of  the  hall  and 
back  again.  'T  was  the  docther  himself  said 
a  while  ago  that  ye  'd  ought  to  thry  walking 
more,  and  'twas  your  honor  was  like  to  have 
the  life  of  him.  You  're  a  very  conthrairy 
gentleman,  if  I  may  be  so  bold  !  " 

The  captain  laughed,  but  the  business  of 
dragging  his  poor  heavy  foot  was  more  seri 
ous  than  he  had  expected,  in  spite  of  all  his 
brave  determination.  Nora  did  her  best  to 
beguile  him  from  too  much  consciousness  of 
his  feebleness  and  disappointment. 

"  Sure  if  you  'd  see  ould  Mother  Killahan 
come  hobbling  into  church,  you  'd  think  your 
self  as  good  as  a  greyhound,"  she  said  pres 
ently,  while  the  master  rested  in  one  of  the 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  283 

chairs  at  the  hall's  end.  "  She  's  very  old 
intirely.  I  saw  her  myself  asleep  at  her 
beads  this  morning,  but  she  do  be  very 
steady  011  her  two  knees,  and  whiles  she  prays 
and  says  a  bead  or  two,  and  whiles  she  gets  a 
bit  of  sleep,  the  poor  cr'ature.  She  does  be 
staying  in  the  church  a  dale  this  cold  weather, 
and  Father  Dunn  is  very  aisy  with  her.  She 
makes  the  stations  every  morning  of  the  year, 
so  she  does,  and  one  day  she  come  t'rough 
the  deep  snow  in  a  great  storm  there  was, 
and  she  fell  down  with  weakness  on  the 
church  steps;  and  they  told  Father  Dunn, 
and  said  how  would  they  get  her  home,  and 
he  come  running  himself,  scolding  all  the 
way,  and  took  her  up  in  his  arrums,  and  wint 
back  with  her  to  his  own  house.  You  'd 
thought  she  was  his  own  mother,  sir.  '  She  's 
one  of  God's  poor,'  says  he,  with  the  tears  in 
his  eyes.  Oh,  captain,  sir !  I  wish  it  was 
Father  Dunn  was  praste  to  you,  I  do  then  ! 
I  'm  thinking  he  'd  know  what  prayers  would 
be  right  for  you;  and  himself  was  born  in 
the  country  forninst  Glengariff,  and  would 
tell  you  how  foine  it  was  for  your  stringth. 
If  you  'd  get  better,  sir,  and  we  'd  meet  him 
on  the  street,  we  'd  be  afther  asking  his 


284  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

The  captain  made  no  answer ;  he  was  tired 
and  spent,  and  sank  into  his  disdained  easy- 
chair,  grateful  for  its  comfortable  support. 
The  mention  of  possible  help  for  his  feeble 
frame  from  any  source  clung  to  his  erratic 
memory,  and  after  a  few  days  one  of  the 
thoughts  that  haunted  his  mind  was  that  Fa 
ther  Dunn,  a  kind-faced,  elderly  man,  might 
be  of  use  in  this  great  emergency.  To  every 
body's  surprise,  his  bodily  strength  seemed 
to  be  slowly  returning  as  the  spring  days 
went  by,  but  there  was  oftener  and  oftener 
an  appealing,  childish  look  in  his  face, — the 
firm  lines  of  it  were  blurred,  even  while 
there  was  a  steady  renewing  of  his  shattered 
forces.  At  last  he  was  able  to  drive  down 
the  busy  street  one  day,  with  Reilly,  in  his 
familiar  chaise.  The  captain's  old  friends 
gathered  to  welcome  him,  and  he  responded 
to  their  salutations  with  dignity  and  evident 
pleasure ;  but  once  or  twice,  when  some  one 
congratulated  him  upon  certain  successful 
matters  of  business  which  he  had  planned 
before  his  illness,  there  was  only  a  trou 
bled  look  of  dullness  and  almost  pain  for 
answer. 

One  day,  Nora  Connelly  stole  out  into  the 
garden  in  the  afternoon,  and  sat  there  idly 


A  LITTLE  CAPTIVE  MAID.  285 

under  an  old  peach-tree.  The  green  fruit 
showed  itself  thick  all  along  the  slender 
boughs.  Nora  had  been  crying  already,  and 
now  she  looked  up  through  the  green  leaves 
at  the  far  blue  sky,  and  then  began  to  cry 
again.  She  was  sadly  homesick,  poor  child ! 
She  longed  for  her  lover,  whom  she  feared 
now  never  to  see.  Like  a  picture  she  re 
called  the  familiar  little  group  of  thatched 
houses  at  home,  with  their  white  walls  and 
the  narrow  green  lanes  between  ;  she  saw  the 
pink  daisies  underfoot,  and  the  golden  gorse 
climbing  the  hill  till  it  stood  against  the 
white  clouds.  She  remembered  the  figures 
of  the  blue-cloaked  women  who  went  and 
came,  the  barefooted,  merry  children,  and  the 
dabbling  ducks ;  then  she  fell  to  thinking 
lovingly  of  her  last  walk  with  Johnny  Mor 
ris,  the  empty  bird's  nest,  and  all  their  hopes 
and  promises  the  night  before  she  left  home. 
She  had  been  willful  in  yielding  to  her  aunt's 
plans  ;  she  knew  that  Johnny  feared  her 
faithlessness,  but  it  was  all  for  love  of  him 
that  she  had  left  him.  She  knew  how  poor 
they  were  at  home.  She  had  faithfully  sent 
a  pound  a  month  to  her  aunt,  and  though  she 
had  had  angry  appeals  for  more,  the  other 
pound  that  she  could  spare,  leaving  but  little 


286  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

for  herself,  had  been  sent  in  secret  to  John 
ny's  mother.  She  always  dreaded  the  day 
when  her  avaricious  aunt  should  find  this 
out  and  empty  all  the  vials  of  her  wrath  of 
covetousness.  Nora,  to  use  her  own  expres 
sion,  was  as  much  in  dread  of  this  aunt  as  if 
the  sea  were  a  dry  ditch.  Alas  !  she  was 
still  the  same  poor  Nora  Connelly,  though 
rich  and  busy  America  stretched  eastward 
and  westward  from  where  she  made  her  new 
home.  It  was  only  by  keeping  her  pounds  in 
her  pocket  that  she  could  gather  enough  to 
be  of  real  and  permanent  use  to  those  she 
loved ;  and  yet  their  every-day  woes,  real  or 
fictitious,  stole  the  pounds  from  her  one  by 
one. 

So  she  sat  crying  under  the  peach-tree 
until  the  pale  old  captain  came  by,  in  the 
box-bordered  walk,  with  scuffling,  unsteady 
steps.  He  saw  Nora  and  stopped,  leaning 
on  his  cane. 

"  Come,  come,  Nora !  "  he  said  anxiously. 
"  What 's  the  matter,  my  girl?  " 

Nora  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled  instantly. 
It  was  as  if  the  warm  Irish  sunshine  had 
broken  out  in  the  middle  of  a  May  shower. 
A  long  spray  of  purple  foxglove  grew  at 
her  feet,  and  the  captain  glanced  down  at 


A   LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  287 

it.  The  sight  of  it  was  almost  more  than 
she  could  bear,  this  flower  that  grew  in  the 
hedgerows  at  home.  She  felt  as  if  the 
flower  were  exiled  like  herself  and  trying  to 
grow  in  a  strange  country. 

"  Don't  touch  it,  sir,"  she  faltered,  as 
the  captain  moved  it  with  his  cane ;  "  't  is 
very  bad  luck  to  meddle  with  that :  they 
say  yourself  will  be  meddled  with  by  the 
fairies.  Fairy  Fingers  is  the  name  of  that 
flower ;  we  were  niver  left  pick  it.  Oh, 
but  it  minds  me  of  home !  " 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  to-day?" 
asked  the  captain. 

"  I  've  been  feeling  very  sad,  sir ;  I  can't 
help  it,  either,  thinkin'  o'  me  home  I  've  left 
and  me  dear  lad  that  1 11  see  no  more.  I 
was  wrong  to  lave  him,  I  was  indeed." 

"  What  lad  ?  "  asked  Captain  Balf  our  sus 
piciously.  "  I  '11  have  no  nonsense  nor  lads 
about  my  place.  You  're  too  young " 
He  looked  sharply  at  the  tearful  young  face. 
"  Mrs.  Nash  can't  spare  you,  either,"  he 
added  humbly,  in  a  different  tone. 

"  Faix,  sir,  it 's  at  home  he  is,  in  the  old 
counthry,  without  me  ;  he  '11  niver  throuble 
ye,  me  poor  Johnny,"  Nora  explained  sadly 
enough.  She  had  risen  with  proper  cour- 


288  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

tesy,  and  was  standing  by  the  old  man ;  now 
she  ventured  to  take  hold  of  his  arm.  He 
looked  flushed  and  eager,  and  she  forgot 
herself  in  the  instinct  to  take  care  of  him. 

"  Where  do  you  be  going  so  fast  ?  "  she 
asked  with  a  little  laugh.  "  I  'm  afther  be 
lieving  't  is  running  away  you  are." 

The  captain  regarded  her  solemnly  ;  then 
he  laughed,  too.  "  Come  with  me,"  he  said. 
"  I  'm  going  to  make  a  call." 

"  Where  would  it  be  ? "  demanded  the 
girl,  with  less  than  her  usual  deference. 

"  Come,  come !  I  want  to  be  off,"  in 
sisted  the  old  gentleman.  "  We  '11  go  out  of 
this  little  gate  in  the  fence.  I  Ve  got  to  see 
your  Father  Dunn  on  a  matter  of  business," 
he  said,  as  if  he  had  no  idea  of  accepting 
any  remonstrance. 

Nora  knew  that  the  doctor  and  all  the 
elder  members  of  the  household  approved 
of  her  master's  amusing  himself  and  taking 
all  the  exercise  he  could.  She  herself 
approved  his  present  intentions  entirely ;  it 
was  not  for  her  to  battle  with  the  head  of 
the  house,  at  any  rate,  so  she  dutifully  and 
with  great  interest  and  anxiety  set  forth 
beside  him  down  the  path,  on  the  alert  for 
any  falterings  or  missteps. 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  289 

They  went  out  at  the  gate  in  the  high 
fence ;  the  master  remembered  where  to  find 
the  key,  and  he  seemed  in  excellent  spirits. 
The  side  street  led  them  down  the  hill  to 
Father  Dunn's  house,  but  when  they  reached 
it  the  poor  captain  was  tired  out.  Nora  be 
gan  to  be  frightened,  as  she  stole  a  look  at 
him.  She  had  forgotten,  in  the  pride  of  her 
own  youthful  strength,  that  it  would  be  such 
a  long  walk  for  him.  She  was  anxious 
about  the  interview  with  Father  Dunn  ;  she 
had  no  idea  how  to  account  for  their  pres 
ence,  but  she  had  small  opinion  of  the  mer 
its  and  ability  of  the  captain's  own  parish 
minister,  and  felt  confident  of  the  good  re 
sult,  in  some  way,  of  the  visit.  Presently 
the  priest's  quick  step  was  heard  in  the  pas 
sage  ;  Nora  rose  dutifully  as  he  came  in,  but 
was  only  noticed  by  a  kindly  glance.  The 
old  captain  tried  to  rise,  too,  but  could  not, 
and  Father  Dunn  and  he  greeted  each  other 
with  evident  regard  and  respect.  Father 
Dunn  sat  down  with  a  questioning  look ;  he 
was  a  busy  man  with  a  great  parish,  and 
almost  every  one  of  his  visitors  came  to 
him  with  an  important  errand. 

The  room  was  stiff-looking  and  a  little 
bare  ;  everything  in  it  was  well  worn.  There 


290  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

was  a  fine  portrait  of  Father  Dunn's  prede 
cessor,  or,  it  should  rather  be  said,  a  poor 
portrait  of  a  fine  man,  whose  personal  good 
ness  and  power  of  doing  Christian  service 
shone  in  his  face.  Father  Miles  had  been 
the  first  priest  in  that  fast-growing  inland 
town,  and  the  captain  had  known  and  re 
spected  him.  He  did  not  say  anything  now, 
but  sat  looking  up,  much  pleased,  at  the 
picture.  This  parlor  of  the  priest's  house 
had  a  strangely  public  and  impersonal  look ; 
it  had  been  the  scene  of  many  parish  wed 
dings  and  christenings,  and  sober  givings  of 
rebuke  and  kindly  counsel.  Nora  gazed 
about  her  with  awe  ;  she  had  been  brought 
up  in  great  reverence  of  holy  things  and  of 
her  spiritual  pastors  and  masters ;  but  she 
could  not  help  noticing  that  the  captain  was 
a  little  astray  in  these  first  few  moments. 
There  stole  in  upon  his  pleased  contempla 
tion  of  the  portrait  a  fretful  sense  of  doing 
an  unaccustomed  thing,  and  he  could  not  re 
gain  his  familiar  dignity  and  self-possession  ; 
that  conscious  right  to  authority  which 
through  long  years  had  stood  him  in  such 
good  stead.  He  was  only  a  poor,  broken- 
down,  sick  old  man ;  he  had  never  quite 
understood  the  truth  about  himself  before, 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  291 

and  the  thought  choked  him ;  he  could  not 
speak. 

"  The  masther  was  coveting  to  spake  with 
your  riverence  about  Glengariff,"  ventured 
Nora  timidly,  feeling  at  last  that  the  suc 
cess  of  the  visit  depended  wholly  upon  her 
self. 

"  Oh,  Glengariff,  indeed  !  "  exclaimed  the 
good  priest,  much  relieved.  He  had  dis 
covered  the  pathetic  situation  at  last,  and 
his  face  grew  compassionate. 

"  This  little  girl  seems  to  believe  that  it 
would  set  me  up  to  have  a  change  of  air. 
I  have  n't  been  very  well,  Father  Dunn." 
The  captain  was  quite  himself  again  for  the 
moment,  as  he  spoke.  "  You  may  not  have 
heard  that  the  doctors  have  had  hold  of  me 
lately  ?  Nora,  here,  has  been  looking  after 
me  very  well,  and  she  speaks  of  some  sea 
bathing  on  your  Irish  coast.  I  may  not  be 
able  to  leave  my  business  long  enough  to 
do  any  good.  It 's  going  to  the  dogs,  at 
any  rate,  but  I  've  got  enough  to  carry  me 
through." 

Nora  was  flushing  with  eagerness,  but  the 
priest  saw  how  white  the  old  captain's  fin 
gers  were,  where  they  clasped  his  walking- 
stick,  how  blurred  and  feeble  his  face  had 


292  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

grown.  The  thought  of  the  green  hills  and 
hollows  along  the  old  familiar  shore,  the 
lovely  reaches  of  the  bay,  the  soft  air,  the 
flowery  hedgerows,  came  to  his  mind  as  if 
he  had  been  among  them  but  yesterday. 

"  I  wish  that  you  were  there,  sir,  I  do  in 
deed,"  said  Father  Dunn.  "  It  is  nearer 
like  heaven  than  any  spot  in  the  world  to 
me,  is  old  Glengariff .  You  would  be  pleased 
there,  I  'm  certain.  But  you  're  not  strong 
enough  for  the  voyage,  I  fear,  Captain  Bal- 
four.  You'd  best  wait  a  bit  and  regain 
your  strength  a  little  more.  A  man's  home 
is  best,  I  think,  when  he  's  not  well." 

The  captain  and  Nora  both  looked  de 
feated.  Father  Dunn  saw  their  sadness,  and 
was  sure  that  his  kindest  duty  was  to  interest 
this  poor  guest,  and  to  make  a  pleasure  for 
him,  if  possible. 

"  I  can  tell  you  all  about  it,  sir,  and  how 
you  might  get  there,"  he  went  on  hastily, 
shaking  his  head  to  some  one  who  had  come 
to  summon  him.  "  Land  at  Queenstown,  go 
right  up  to  Cork  and  pass  the  night,  and 
then  by  rail  and  coach  next  day,  —  't  is  but  a 
brief  journey  and  you  're  there.  'T  is  a 
grand  little  hotel  you  '11  find  close  to  the  bay, 
—  't  was  like  a  palace  to  me  in  my  boyhood, 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  293 

with  the  fine  tourists  coming  and  going; 
well,  I  wish  we  were  there  this  day,  and  I 
showing  you  up  and  down  the  length  of  the 
green  country." 

"Just  what  I  want.  I've  been  a  busy 
man,  but  when  I  take  a  holiday,  give  me  none 
of  your  noisy  towns,"  said  the  captain,  eager 
and  cheerful  again. 

"  You  'd  be  so  still  there  that  a  bird  light 
ing  in  the  thatch  would  wake  you,"  said 
Father  Dunn.  "  Ah,  't  is  many  a  long  year 
since  I  saw  the  place.  I  dream  of  it  by 
night  sometimes,  Captain  Balfour,  God  bless 
it!" 

Nora  could  not  keep  back  the  ready  tears. 
The  very  thought  that  his  reverence  had 
grown  to  manhood  in  her  own  dear  country 
side  was  too  much  for  her. 

"  You  're  not  thinking  of  going  over  this 
summer?  "  asked  the  captain  wistfully.  "  I 
should  be  gratified  if  you  would  bear  me 
company,  sir;  I  'd  try  to  do  my  part  to  make 
it  pleasant."  But  the  good  father  shook  his 
head  and  rose  hastily,  to  stand  by  the  win 
dow  that  looked  out  into  his  little  garden. 

"  We  'd  make  a  good  company,"  said  he 
presently,  turning  toward  them  and  smiling, 
"  with  young  Nora  here  to  show  us  our  way. 


294  A  LITTLE    CAPTIVE  MAID. 

You  can  't  have  had  time  yet,  my  child,  to 
forget  the  old  roads  across  country !  "  and 
Nora  fairly  sobbed. 

"  Pray  for  the  likes  of  me,  sir !  "  she  fal 
tered,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
"  Oh,  pray  for  the  masther  too,  your  river- 
ence  Father  Dunn,  sir ;  't  is  very  wake  he 
is,  and  't  is  mesilf  that  's  very  lonesome  in 
Ameriky,  an'  I'm  afther  laving  the  one  I 
love ! " 

"  Be  quiet,  now  !  "  said  the  priest  gravely, 
checking  her  with  a  kindly  touch  of  his  hand, 
and  glancing  at  Captain  Balfour.  The  poor 
old  man  looked  in  a  worried  way  from  one 
to  the  other,  and  Father  Dunn  went  away 
to  fetch  him  a  glass  of  wine.  Then  he  was 
ready  to  go  home,  and  Father  Dunn  got  his 
hat  and  big  cane,  pleading  that  an  errand 
was  taking  him  in  the  same  direction. 

"  If  I  thought  it  would  do  me  any  good,  I 
would  start  for  that  place  we  were  speaking 
of  to-morrow,"  said  the  captain  as  they  set 
forth.  "  You  know  to  what  I  refer,  the  sea 
bathing  and  all."  The  priest  walked  slowly ; 
the  captain's  steps  grew  more  and  more 
faltering  and  unsteady.  Nora  Connelly  fol 
lowed  anxiously.  There  flitted  through  Fa 
ther  Dunn's  mind  phrases  out  of  the  old 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  295 

Bible  story, —  "  a  great  man  and  honorable;" 
"  a  valiant  man  and  rich,"  "  but  a  leper ;  " 
the  little  captive  maid  that  brought  him  to 
the  man  of  God.  Alas,  Father  Dunn  could 
tell  the  captain  of  110  waters  of  Jordan  that 
would  make  him  a  sound  man  ;  he  could 
only  say  to  him,  "  Go  in  peace,"  like  the 
prophet  of  old. 

When  they  reached  home  the  household 
already  sought  the  captain  in  despair,  but  it 
happened  that  nobody  was  in  the  wide,  cool 
hall  as  they  entered. 

"  I  hope  that  you  will  come  in  and  take  a 
glass  of  wine  with  me.  You  have  treated 
me  with  brotherly  kindness,  sir,"  said  the 
master  of  the  house  ;  but  Father  Dunn  shook 
his  head  and  smiled  as  he  made  the  old  man 
comfortable  in  a  corner  of  the  broad  sofa, 
taking  his  hat  and  stick  from  him  and  giving 
them  to  Nora.  "  Not  to-day,  Captain  Bal- 
four,  if  you  will  excuse  me." 

The  captain  looked  disappointed  and  child 
ish.  "  I  am  going  to  send  you  a  bottle  of 
my  father's  best  old  madeira,"  he  said. 
"  Sometimes,  when  a  man  is  tired  out  or  has 
a  friend  come  in  to  dine  "  —  But  he  was 
too  weary  himself  to  finish  the  sentence.  The 
old  house  was  very  still;  there  were  distant 


296  A  LITTLE    CAPTIVE  MAID. 

voices  in  the  garden ;  a  door  at  the  end  of 
the  hall  opened  into  an  arbor  where  flickers 
of  light  were  shining  through  the  green  vine 
leaves.  Everything  was  stately  and  hand 
some  ;  there  was  a  touch  everywhere  of  that 
colonial  elegance  of  the  captain's  grandfa 
ther's  time  which  had  never  been  sacrificed 
to  the  demon  of  change,  that  restless  Amer 
ican  spirit  which  has  spoiled  the  beauty  of 
so  many  fine  and  simple  old  houses. 

The  priest  was  used  to  seeing  a  different 
sort  of  household  interior,  his  work  was 
among  the  poor.  Then  he  looked  again  at 
the  house's  owner,  an  old  man,  sick,  sorry, 
and  alone.  "  God  bless  you,  sir,"  he  said. 
"  I  must  be  going  now." 

"  Come  and  see  me  again,"  said  the  cap 
tain,  opening  his  eyes.  "  You  are  a  good 
man  ;  I  am  glad  to  have  your  blessing."  The 
words  were  spoken  with  a  manly  simplicity 
and  directness  that  had  always  been  liked 
by  Captain  Balfour's  friends.  "  Nora,"  he 
whispered,  when  Father  Dunn  had  gone, 
"  we  '11  say  nothing  to  Mrs.  Nash.  I  must 
rest  a  little  while  here  before  we  get  up  the 
stairs." 


A  LITTLE  CAPTIVE  MAW.  297 


IV. 


Toward  the  end  of  the  summer,  things 
had  grown  steadily  worse,  and  Captain  Bal- 
four  was  known  to  be  failing  fast.  The 
clerks  had  ceased  to  come  for  his  signature 
long  before ;  he  had  forgotten  all  about  busi 
ness  and  pleasure  too,  and  slept  a  good  deal, 
and  sometimes  was  glad  to  see  his  friends 
and  sometimes  indifferent  to  their  presence. 
But  one  day,  when  he  felt  well  enough  to  sit 
in  his  great  chair  by  the  window,  he  told 
Mr.  Barton,  his  good  friend  and  lawyer,  that 
he  wished  to  attend  to  a  small  matter  of  busi 
ness.  "  I  Ve  arranged  everything  long  ago, 
as  an  aging  man  should,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
know  that  there  's  any  hurry,  but  I  '11  men 
tion  this  item  while  I  think  of  it.  Nora,  you 
may  go  downstairs,"  he  said  sharply  to  the 
girl,  who  had  just  entered  upon  an  errand  of 
luncheon  or  medicine,  and  Nora  disappeared ; 
she  remembered  afterward  that  it  was  the 
only  time  when,  of  his  own  accord  and  seem 
ing  impatience,  he  had  sent  her  away. 

Reilly  and  Mrs.  Nash  bore  no  ill-will  to 
ward  their  young  housemate  ;  they  were  rea 
sonable  enough  to  regard  Captain  Balfour's 


298  A  LITTLE    CAPTIVE  MAID. 

fondness  for  her  with  approval.  There  was 
something  so  devoted  and  single-hearted 
about  the  young  Irish  girl  that  they  had  be 
come  fond  of  her  themselves.  They  had  their 
own  plans  for  the  future,  and  looked  forward 
to  being  married  when  the  captain  should 
have  no  more  need  of  them.  It  really  hurt 
Mrs.  Nash's  feelings  when  she  often  found 
Nora  in  tears,  for  the  desperate  longing  for 
home  and  for  Johnny  Morris  grew  worse  in 
the  child's  affectionate  heart  instead  of  better. 

One  day  Eeilly  had  gone  down  town,  leav 
ing  the  captain  asleep.  Nora  was  on  guard  ; 
Mrs.  Nash  was  at  hand  in  the  next  room 
with  her  sewing,  and  Nora  sat  still  by  the 
window ;  the  captain  was  apt  to  sleep  long 
and  heavily  at  this  time  of  the  day.  She 
was  busy  with  some  crocheting ;  it  was  some 
edging  of  a  pattern  that  the  sisters  of  Ken- 
mare  had  taught  Johnny  Morris's  mother. 
She  gave  a  little  sigh  at  last  and  folded  her 
hands  in  her  lap ;  her  gray  Irish  eyes  were 
blinded  with  tears. 

"What's  the  matter,  child?"  asked  the 
captain  unexpectedly;  his  voice  sounded 
very  feeble. 

Nora  started ;  she  had  forgotten  him  and 
his  house. 


A   LITTLE   CAPTIVE   MAID.  299 

"  Will  you  have  anything,  sir  ?  "  she  asked 
anxiously. 

"  No,  no ;  what 's  the  matter,  child?  "  asked 
the  old  man  kindly. 

"  'T  is  me  old  story  ;  I  'm  longing  for  me 
home,  and  I  can't  help  it  if  I  died  too.  I  'm 
like  a  thing  torn  up  by  the  roots  and  left 
in  the  road.  You  're  very  good,  sir,  and  I 
would  never  lave  the  house  and  you  in  it, 
but  't  is  home  I  think  of  by  night  and  by 
day ;  how  ever  will  I  get  home  ?  " 

Captain  Balfour  looked  at  her  compas 
sionately.  "  You  're  a  good  girl,  Nora  ;  per 
haps  you'll  go  home  before  long,"  he  said. 

"  'T  is  sorra  a  few  goes  back ;  Ameriky  's 
the  same  as  heaven  for  the  like  o'  that," 
answered  Nora,  trying  to  smile,  and  drying 
her  eyes.  "  There  's  many  'd  go  back  too 
but  for  the  presents  every  one  looks  to  have  ; 
't  would  take  a  dale  of  money  to  plase  the 
whole  road  as  you  pass  by.  'T  is  a  kind  of 
fever  the  young  ones  has  to  be  laving  home. 
Some  laves  good  steady  work  and  home  and 
friends,  that  might  do  well.  There  's  getting 
to  be  fine  chances  for  smart  ones  there  with 
so  many  laving." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  captain  ;  "  we  '11 
talk  that  over  another  time,  I  want  to  go  to 


300  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

sleep  now ;  "  and  Nora  flushed  with  shame 
and  took  up  her  crocheting  again.  "  'T  was 
me  hope  of  growing  rich,  and  me  aunt's 
tongue  shaming  me  that  gets  the  blame,"  she 
murmured  to  herself.  The  sick  man's  hands 
looked  very  white  and  thin  on  the  sides  of 
his  chair ;  she  looked  at  them  and  at  his  face, 
and  her  heart  smote  her  for  selfishness.  She 
was  glad  to  be  in  America,  after  all. 

They  never  said  anything  to  each  other 
now  about  going  to  Glengariff ;  a  good  many 
days  slipped  by  when  the  captain  hardly 
spoke  except  to  answer  questions  ;  but  in 
restless  evenings,  when  he  could  not  sleep, 
people  who  passed  by  in  the  street  could  hear 
Nora  singing  her  old  familiar  songs  of  love 
and  war,  sometimes  in  monotonous,  plain 
tive  cadences  that  repeated  and  repeated  a 
refrain,  sometimes  in  livelier  measure,  with 
strange  thrilling  catches  and  prolonged  high 
notes,  as  a  bird  might  sing  to  its  mate  in  the 
early  dawn  out  in  the  wild  green  pastures. 
The  lovely  weird  songs  of  the  ancient  Irish 
folk,  how  old  they  are,  how  sweet  they  are, 
who  can  tell  ?  but  now  and  then  a  listener  of 
the  new  world  of  the  western  seas  hears  them 
with  deep  delight,  hears  them  with  a  strange, 
golden  sense  of  dim  remembrance,  a  true, 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  301 

far-descended  birthright  of  remembrance  that 
can  only  come  from  inheritance  of  Celtic 
blood. 

When  the  frost  had  fallen  on  the  old 
garden,  Captain  Balfour  died,  and  his  year 
of  trouble  was  ended.  Reilly  and  Mrs. 
Nash,  the  cook  and  Nora,  cried  bitterly  in 
the  kitchen,  where  the  sudden  news  found 
them.  Nobody  could  wish  him  to  come 
back,  but  they  cried  the  more  when  they 
thought  of  that.  There  was  a  great  deal 
said  about  him  in  the  newspapers ;  about  his 
usefulness  in  town  and  State,  his  wealth,  his 
character,  and  his  history  ;  but  nobody  knew 
so  well  as  this  faithful  household  how  com 
fortable  he  had  made  his  lonely  home  for 
other  people  ;  and  those  who  knew  him  best 
thought  most  of  his  kindness,  his  simple 
manliness,  and  sincerity  of  word  and  deed. 

The  evening  after  the  funeral,  Nora  was 
all  alone  in  her  little  room  under  the  high 
roof.  She  sat  on  the  broad  seat  of  a  dormer 
window,  where  she  could  look  far  out  over 
the  city  roofs  to  a  glimpse  of  the  country  be 
yond.  There  was  a  new  moon  in  the  sky, 
the  sunset  was  clear,  the  early  autumn 
weather  was  growing  warm  again. 


302  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

The  old  house  was  to  belong  to  a  nephew 
of  the  captain,  his  only  near  relative,  who 
had  spent  a  great  many  years  abroad  with 
an  invalid  wife ;  it  was  to  be  closed  for  the 
present,  and  Mrs.  Nash  and  Mr.  Keilly  were 
to  be  married  and  live  there  all  winter,  and 
then  go  up  country  to  live  in  the  spring, 
where  Mrs.  Nash  owned  a  little  farm.  She 
was  of  north  of  Ireland  birth,  was  Mrs. 
Nash ;  her  first  husband  had  been  an  Ameri 
can.  She  told  Nora  again  and  again  that 
she  might  always  have  a  home  with  her,  but 
the  fact  remained  that  Nora  must  find  her 
self  a  new  place,  and  she  sat  in  the  window 
wondering  with  a  heavy  heart  what  was 
going  to  happen  to  her.  All  the  way  to  the 
burying-ground  and  back  again  in  the  car 
riage,  with  the  rest  of  the  household,  she 
had  sobbed  and  mourned,  but  she  cried  for 
herself  as  much  as  for  the  captain.  Poor 
little  Irish  Nora,  with  her  warm  heart  and 
her  quick  instincts  and  sympathies !  how 
sadly  she  thought  now  of  the  old  talk  about 
going  to  Glengariff ;  she  had  clung  long  to 
her  vain  hope  that  the  dream  would  come 
true,  and  that  the  old  captain  and  his  house 
hold  were  all  going  over  seas  together,  and 
so  she  should  get  home.  Would  anybody 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  303 

in  America  ever  be  so  kind  again  and  need 
her  so  much  as  the  captain  ? 

Some  one  had  come  to  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  and  was  calling  Nora  loudly  again  and 
again.  It  was  dark  in  the  upper  entryway, 
however  bright  the  west  had  looked  just 
now  from  her  window.  She  left  her  little 
room  in  confusion;  she  had  begun  already  to 
look  over  her  bits  of  things,  her  few  clothes 
and  treasures,  before  she  packed  them  to  go 
away.  Mrs.  Nash  seemed  to  be  in  a  most 
important  hurry,  and  said  that  they  were 
both  wanted  in  the  dining-room,  and  it  was 
very  pleasant  somehow  to  be  wanted  and 
made  of  consequence  again.  She  had  begun 
to  feel  like  such  an  unnecessary,  stray  little 
person  in  the  house. 

The  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  handsome 
old  dining-room,  it  was  orderly  and  sedate ; 
one  who  knew  the  room  half  expected  to  see 
Captain  Balfour's  fine  figure  appear  in  the 
doorway  to  join  the  waiting  group.  There 
were  some  dark  portraits  on  the  wall,  and 
the  old  Balfour  silver  stood  on  the  long  side 
board.  Mrs.  Nash  had  set  out  all  the  best 
furnishings,  for  this  day  when  the  master  of 
the  house  left  it  forever. 

There  were  not  many  persons  present,  and 


304  A  LITTLE    CAPTIVE  MAID. 

Nora  sat  down,  as  some  one  bade  her,  feeling 
very  disrespectful  as  she  did  it.  Mr.  Barton, 
the  lawyer,  began  to  read  slowly  from  a 
large  folded  paper;  it  dawned  presently 
upon  Nora  that  this  was  the  poor  captain's 
will.  There  was  a  long  bequest  to  the  next 
of  kin,  there  were  public  gifts,  and  gifts  to 
different  friends,  and  handsome  legacies  to 
faithful  Mrs.  Nash  and  James  Reilly,  and 
presently  the  reading  was  over.  There  was 
something  quite  grand  in  listening  to  this 
talk  of  thousands  and  estates,  but  little  Nora, 
who  had  no  call,  as  she  told  herself,  to  look 
for  anything,  felt  the  more  lonely  and  friend 
less  as  she  listened.  There  was  a  murmur 
of  respectful  comment  as  the  reading  ended, 
but  Mr.  Barton  was  opening  another  paper, 
a  small  sheet,  and  looked  about  him,  expect 
ing  further  attention. 

"  I  am  sure  that  no  one  will  object  to  the 
carrying  out  of  our  deceased  friend's  wishes 
as  affirmed  in  this  more  recent  memorandum. 
Captain  Balfour  was  already  infirm  at  the 
time  when  he  gave  me  the  directions,  but, 
as  far  as  I  could  judge,  entirely  clear  in  his 
mind.  He  dictated  to  me  the  following 
bequest  and  signed  it.  The  signature  is,  I 
own,  nearly  illegible,  but  I  am  sure  that, 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  305 

under  the  somewhat  affecting  circumstances, 
there  will  be  no  opposition." 

"  I  desire  "  (read  Mr.  Barton  slowly),  —  "  I 
desire  the  executors  of  my  will  to  pay  five 
hundred  dollars  within  one  month  after  my 
death  to  Nora  Connelly;  also,  to  secure  her 
comfortable  second-class  passage  to  the  port 
of  Queenstown,  in  Ireland.  I  mean  that,  if 
she  still  desires,  she  may  return  to  her  home. 
I  am  sensible  of  her  patience  and  kindness, 
and  I  attempt  in  this  poor  way  to  express 
my  gratitude  to  a  good  girl.  I  wish  her  a 
safe  return,  and  that  every  happiness  may 
attend  her  future  life. 

"  JOHN  BALFOUR." 

"  'T  is  a  hundred  pounds  for  ye  an'  yer 
passage,  me  darlin',"  whispered  the  cook  ex 
citedly.  "  'T  is  mesilf  knew  you  would  n't 
be  forgotten  an'  the  rist  of  us  so  well  re- 
mi  mbered.  'T  is  foine  luck  for  ye  ;  Heaven 
rist  his  soul,  the  poor  captain  !  " 

Nora  was  sitting  pale  and  silent.  She  did 
not  cry  now ;  her  heart  was  deeply  touched, 
her  thoughts  flew  homeward.  She  seemed 
to  hear  the  white  waves  breaking  about  the 
ship,  and  to  see  the  far  deep  colors  of  the 
Irish  shore.  For  Johnny  had  said  again  and 
again  that  if  they  had  a  hundred  pounds  and 


306  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

their  two  pairs  of  hands,  he  could  do  as  well 
with  his  little  farm  as  any  man  in  Ireland. 

"  Sind  for  your  lad  to  come  over,"  urged 
Cousin  Donahue,  a  day  later,  when  the  news 
had  been  told  ;  but  Nora  proudly  shook  her 
head.  She  had  asked  for  her  passage  the 
very  next  week.  It  was  a  fine  country, 
America,  for  those  with  the  courage  for  it, 
but  not  for  Nora  Connelly,  that  had  left 
her  heart  behind  her.  Cousin  Donahue 
laughed  and  shook  his  head  at  such  folly,  and 
offered  a  week's  free  lodging  to  herself  and 
Johnny  the  next  spring,  when  she  'd  be  the 
second  time  a  greenhorn  coming  over.  But 
Nora  laughed  too,  and  sailed  away  one  Sat 
urday  morning  in  late  October,  across  the 
windy  sea  to  Ireland. 


V. 


Again  it  was  gray  twilight  after  a  short 
autumn  day  in  the  old  country,  and  a  tall 
Irish  lad  was  walking  along  the  high-road 
that  led  into  Kenmare.  He  was  strong  and 
eager  for  work,  but  his  young  heart  was 
heavy  within  him.  The  piece  of  land  which 


A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  307 

he  held  needed  two  men's  labor,  and  work  as 
he  might,  he  must  fall  behind  with  his  rent. 

It  was  three  years  since  that  had  hap 
pened  before,  and  he  had  tried  so  hard  to  do 
well  with  his  crops,  and  had  even  painfully 
read  a  book  that  was  wise  about  crops  which 
the  agent  had  lent  him,  and  talked  much 
besides  with  all  the  good  farmers.  It  was 
no  use,  he  could  not  hold  his  own ;  times 
were  bad  and  sorrowful,  and  Nora  was  away. 
He  had  believed  that,  whatever  happened  to 
her  fortunes,  he  should  be  able  in  time  to 
send  for  her  himself  and  be  a  well-off  man. 
Oh,  for  a  hundred  pounds  in  his  pocket  to 
renew  his  wornout  land  !  to  pay  a  man  to 
help  him  with  the  new  ditching.  Oh,  for 
courage  to  fight  his  way  to  independence 
on  Irish  ground  !  "I  've  only  got  my  heart 
and  my  two  hands,  God  forgive  me  !  "  said 
Johnny  Morris  aloud.  "  God  be  good  to 
me  and  Norry,  and  me  poor  mother  !  May  be 
I  '11  be  after  getting  a  letter  from  me  dar 
ling  the  night;  't  is  long  since  she  wrote." 

He  stepped  back  among  the  bushes  to  let 
a  side-car  pass  that  had  come  up  suddenly 
behind  him.  He  recognized  the  step  of 
Dinny  Killoren's  fast  pacer,  and  looked  to 
see  if  there  were  room  on  the  car  for  another 


308  A  LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID. 

passenger,  or  if  perhaps  Dinny  might  be 
alone  and  glad  to  have  company.  There  was 
only  Dinny  himself  and  a  woman,  who  gave 
a  strange  cry.  The  pacer  stopped,  and 
Johnny's  heart  beat  within  him  as  if  it  would 
come  out  of  his  breast.  "  My  God,  who  's 
this  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Lift  me  down,  lift  me  down  !  "  said  the 
girl.  "  Oh,  God  be  thanked,  I  'm  here  !  " 
And  Johnny  leaped  forward  and  caught  Nora 
Connelly  in  his  arms. 

"Is  it  yoursilf?"  he  faltered,  and  Nora 
said,  "  It 's  mesilf  indeed,  then."  Dinny 
Killoren  laughed  aloud  on  the  side-car,  with 
his  pacer  backing  and  jumping  and  threat 
ening  to  upset  all  Nora's  goods  in  the  road. 
There  was  a  house  near  by ;  a  whiff  of  turf 
smoke,  drifting  low  in  the  damp  air,  blew 
into  Nora's  face  ;  she  heard  the  bells  begin 
to  ring  in  Kemnare.  It  was  the  evening  of 
a  saint's  day,  and  they  rang  and  rang,  and 
Nora  had  come  home. 

So  she  married  the  lad  she  loved,  and  was 
a  kind  daughter  to  his  mother.  They  spent 
a  good  bit  of  the  captain's  money  on  their 
farm,  and  gave  it  a  fine  start,  and  were  able 
to  flaunt  their  prosperity  in  the  face  of  that 
unkind  aunt  who  had  wished  to  make  them 


A   LITTLE   CAPTIVE  MAID.  309 

spend  their  lives  apart.  They  were  seen 
early  on  market  days  in  Keiimare,  and 
Nora  only  laughed  when  foolish  young  people 
said  that  the  only  decent  country  in  the 
world  was  America.  Sometimes  she  sat  in 
her  doorway  in  the  long  summer  evening  and 
thought  affectionately  of  Captain  Balfour, 
the  poor,  kind  gentleman,  and  blessed  herself 
devoutly.  Often  she  said  a  prayer  for  him 
on  Sunday  morning  as  she  knelt  in  the  par 
ish  church,  with  flocks  of  blackbirds  singing 
outside  among  the  green  hedges,  under  the 
lovely  Irish  sky. 


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